


Not Much of an Everyone (To Get On With)

by Jolie_Black



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Downton Abbey Season 6, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode 6.09, Episode: s06e09 The Finale, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Missing Scene, Oh Thomas, POV Alternating, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27896287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolie_Black/pseuds/Jolie_Black
Summary: Sometimes, Thomas Barrow honestly thinks that making friends with his fellow workers at his new place of employment is the hardest thing he’s ever tried to do.Set during Episode 6.09 (The Finale) of the TV series.
Comments: 173
Kudos: 129
Collections: A Very Thomas Barrow Christmas 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is emphatically a gen fic, but it’s still a story about love, because it comes in many forms, doesn’t it.   
> If you look closely, it’s also a fill for prompt #28 of the Discord Thomas Barrow 2020 Xmas Challenge, “Open Fire” (“It’s nice though, sitting here with you.”). 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> I treasure all feedback immensely.

**Elsie**

On the new butler's first day of all days, Elsie is very nearly late for work.

Lady Stiles expects her back from her half-day off at six o'clock sharp to help her dress for dinner, and she's so particular about punctuality. She's particular about everything else, too. Elsie knows that unless she wants to cut it very fine indeed, she needs to make it to the other side of the level crossing at the station by five thirty-nine. Otherwise the five forty to York will get to go first and Elsie and her bike will get to wait, and she'll have earned another black mark.

It's five thirty-nine and thirty seconds, and the signalman has already stepped out of his cabin to close the gate when Elsie arrives at the crossing. What do they say about never getting a second chance to make a good first impression? She flits across the tracks at the last moment.

Elsie is rather out of breath by the time she reaches the house, which someone with no consideration for working women like her has built on a hill above the village. She's supposed to put the bicycle into the shed, but today she just leaves it leaning against the wall in the yard. It gains her a minute of valuable time to make herself presentable. At least she's no longer puffing and panting when she enters the house by the back door.

And a good decision it was, too, because there he is behind the desk in the butler's pantry. He stands leaning over a heavy leather-bound ledger, and Elsie is immediately convinced that he's the type who shares Lady Stiles' belief that tardiness and untidiness are mortal sins. He looks so neat. Hair parted as if with a ruler, stiff collar crackling with starch, dressed to the nines from head to foot. She's glad she fixed that wayward lock of her hair that came loose when she took off her hat.

He raises his dark head and sees her standing in the open door. Keen eyes like two chips of ice look her - no, not up and down. He just looks at her face.

"Elsie, is it?"

"Yes, sir."

She bobs a curtsey. He walks towards her, even holds out his hand.

"Thomas Barrow."

"Welcome to Stiles Court, Mr Barrow."

"Thank you, Elsie."

His voice is less clipped and posh than she expected. It strikes her then that he may be just as concerned as she is about making a good first impression. She has been told that he comes from one of the greatest houses in the area, with a glowing reference from the Earl of Grantham himself and highly recommended by the Earl's mother, who has known Lady Stiles for decades. It surprises her that he should feel the need to make himself agreeable to a lowly maid.

"I - I have to go up to see to Her Ladyship, sir," she says, stumbling a little over the words in her haste. "I'm late already. But I'll see you tomorrow, if there's anything I can help with."

"Yes, of course," he agrees readily.

She gestures towards the back door. "And I'm sorry about the bike. I'll put it away as soon as I can. Just, if Mr Jenkins...

He nods, and she considers herself dismissed.

Lady Stiles, already seated at her dressing table when Elsie enters her room, glances pointedly at the mantel clock. Two minutes past six. Elsie mutters an apology and picks up the hair brush.

It's only later, when Sir Mark and Lady Stiles have gone in to dinner and Elsie comes back down to stow her bicycle, that she finds that someone has already put it in the shed. It's not like Mr Jenkins to do that, at least not without pinning a note on it that says "No Bicycles to be Left in the Yard", but she thinks nothing of it just then. Maybe Mr Jenkins just had a good day.

**Thomas**

The first thing Thomas noticed about Stiles Court when he went there for his interview was the silence.

No, not true. The first thing he noticed were the beautiful gardens, well-tended, white roses still in full bloom even in September. But the silence was a close second.

This time, when he comes to stay, it's almost worse than he remembered.

Stiles Court is built to a much smaller scale than Downton Abbey, of course. Downton is vast. But it's full of life, what with three, sometimes four generations under the same roof and a set of servants to match the family's varied wants and needs. Even now they're nowhere near the full pre-war complement any more, it never felt unlived-in. Whereas Stiles Court seems like a museum, filled with sepulchral quietude.

When Mrs Jenkins shows him around on his first afternoon, Thomas immediately realises that his new role will be largely that of a solitary custodian, moving silently from room to room as if in felt slippers to see the place aired and dusted before allowing it to slide back into its deep slumber. A very busy custodian, mind – he will be butler, valet and footman rolled into one now, doing everything from taking in the post and brushing Sir Mark's hats to decanting the wine and marshalling the workmen who will come tomorrow to fix a leak in the roof. But solitary all the same.

When he goes up to his bedroom that night, after seeing Sir Mark and Lady Stiles upstairs to their early rest and making the rounds to lock all the doors, the quiet in the house is downright oppressive.

He unpacks the rest of his clothes from the larger suitcase and his books from the smaller one, then walks around the room to find new homes for his belongings. There is far more space here than he ever used to call his own at Downton, but with little to fill it and no one to share it with, there's no real joy in that.

He takes out the framed photograph of his mother and sets it up on the bedside table, but he doesn't really look at it. What should he tell her? That he thinks he's made a terrible mistake to bury himself alive in this place? Is it even called a mistake when you don't have a choice?

The suitcases are soon empty. Mrs Jenkins showed him the luggage room in the attic on their tour of the house, but he just stows the cases on top of his wardrobe for now. It feels better to have them ready to hand like that, somehow.

Who is he kidding.

**Elsie**

"Well, Elsie?" Lady Stiles asks the next morning, when Elsie lays out the dress and Lady Stiles picks her jewellery for the day. "What do you think of our new butler?"

What is she supposed to say? That anyone is better than sad old Mr Mitchell who dropped dead of his bad heart, just weeks after she started here last year, or than his successor, Mr Grant, who gave her the creeps with his grovelling servility towards his employers and his leering looks at her whenever the Stileses had their backs turned?

Maybe she shouldn't be so unkind, even just in her thoughts. But what harm can it do now? Mr Mitchell is long buried, and Mr Grant left in a cloud of scandal to marry the post office girl from the village when she was almost at full term. People say they moved to London for a fresh start. She suddenly wonders if Mr Barrow even knows why Mr Grant wasn't here for the interview and the handover.

"Elsie? What do you think?"

"I'm sorry, my Lady," she hurries to reply. "I don't know, really. We've barely exchanged a dozen words."

"Good," Lady Stiles says, sounding content. "Keep it that way, please. I will have no impropriety in this house."

"No, my Lady. Of course not."

The business of Mr Grant has rattled the old lady badly, and it's made her even more uptight than before. Elsie suddenly thinks of her bicycle again, but she keeps her mouth very tightly shut indeed. Lady Stiles will not catch her admitting that the new butler has been nice to the maid, or else he may be gone again quicker than Elsie could even say "impropriety".

Knowing this should make her feel safe, really, but for some reason, she can already tell that she would be sorry if it happened.

**Thomas**

It's surprising how easy it is for five grown people in the same house to completely avoid each other if they try. Well, _he_ doesn't do it on purpose, but everyone else does, which has essentially the same effect.

The respective duties of the three indoor servants barely overlap. And where they do, it's awkward.

Elsie the maid, with her unruly brown hair and wide-set hazel eyes, looks barely twenty. When she stood in the door of the pantry for the first time, Thomas thought for a moment that he was looking at Daisy Mason, or rather at Daisy as she was before the war. But Elsie also has a no-nonsense practicality about her that reminds him of Anna Bates. She certainly seems to need no one to tell her what to do. That's a relief, in a way, but on the other hand…

"So if you need anything, supplies or the like, you'll let me know, won't you?" Thomas says when she comes down from dressing Lady Stiles in the morning. "Or how did you manage these things with Mr Grant?"

"I'd just put a note on his desk," the girl says.

Practicality taken to extremes, then. There dies another shred of hope for a little human interaction, now and again.

"Whatever works best for you," Thomas says aloud, trying hard not to sound disappointed.

The kitchen is worse. Every time he goes in there, it's as if he's entering foreign territory, and he has to have a valid passport stating an approved reason for his presence to be tolerated there. That is hard to get used to, when he's always known the kitchen to be the living, beating heart of the household. Thomas feels ashamed now that he used to value Mrs Patmore mainly for the food she produced. It's not that Mrs Jenkins is hostile, or even just unfriendly. But she never gives him the feeling that it would be all right to just... linger.

He even takes his meals alone now. Mrs Jenkins and her husband, who serves as gardener, groundskeeper, general outdoor handyman and at need as chauffeur, eat at their own cottage on the estate. Elsie only comes in to work after breakfast, has her luncheon while Thomas serves the Stileses', and is gone again by the time he sits down to his own dinner late at night. It's almost as if she has arranged her routine with the express purpose of spending as little time as she can in the same room with him.

It makes him an absurd figure, enthroned at the head of an empty table that could seat twelve. But at least it gives him enough room to spread out the paper comfortably while he eats. Mrs Jenkins seems downright shocked when she walks in on him and finds him paying more attention to the news than to his porridge, as if that's somehow ungrateful. But what is he supposed to do? Stare at the peeling paint on the walls instead?

Stiles Court is not in good shape. On the surface, it looks fine, if a little behind the times – gas light in the servants' hall, no telephone in his pantry. But he soon learns to take a closer look, and then he sees it everywhere. It's not downright decay, but it's as if no one in years has expended the time and energy that the upkeep of a place like this requires. Does that always happen when these people grow old? He wouldn't know. Lord and Lady Grantham aren't really old people in that sense yet, and maybe never will be. And old Lady Grantham will _die_ upright in her corset rather than make any allowances, ever.

Thomas isn't surprised, therefore, when on Thursday evening ahead of dinner, he draws a curtain in the dining room with a little too much gusto, and it comes down in a cloud of dust and bitty threads of brocade. He stares at the ruin for a moment, then wraps it up in a bundle and goes to look for Elsie.

He finds her in the laundry, bowed over a tub with the sleeves of her black dress rolled up, rinsing out what looks like a blouse for Lady Stiles. Laundry day is not until tomorrow, he has been informed. He will have to manage Sir Mark's wardrobe (not to mention his own) with more foresight if he doesn't want to join Elsie here on a regular basis, now he can no longer rely on the daily supply of fresh linen that the Downton laundrywomen used to churn out. It's amazing how much he's taken for granted, until now.

Elsie looks up in that slightly harassed way of hers, not exactly waiting to be told off, but certainly wary of more work coming her way, and who can blame her. If he is butler, valet and footman now, she is housekeeper, lady's maid and housemaid all at once. Except for some reason, the Stileses afford him the title, status and pay according to the highest rank of the three, while she has to be content with the lowest.

"Do you think we can do anything about this?" Thomas asks, showing her the remains of the curtain.

Elsie dries her hands on a towel and fingers the heavy cloth carefully. "I think I could reinforce the back and then stitch it up. After it's been washed."

"So, not in the next five minutes?"

Elsie shakes her head. "I'm sorry, no. I don't see how."

"So do I get on a stepladder now and try and rearrange the rest so the gap doesn't show, or do we just leave it like it is and rub their noses in it?"

Elsie picks up Lady Stiles' blouse again. "Noses, I think," she says matter-of-factly, and Thomas realises, horrified, that he has said that last thing out loud. It seemed like such a natural thing to do.

They look at each other for a moment, and if either of them dared, they'd share a laugh.

"I'll let you get on with your work then," Thomas says instead and walks out to face the Stileses' displeasure. It won't be fun, but he can tell already that he will work himself into the ground in no time at all if he always tries to fix everything himself and at once. And it's good to know that Elsie agrees.

It's only after the not exactly amused Stileses have left their lopsidedly-decorated dining room for their usual fifteen minutes of coffee and non-conversation after dinner that Thomas realises something that makes him feel both guilty and glad. Not so long ago, his instinct would have been to blame the whole mishap on the maid in the first place, and then watch from the sidelines while she took the consequences. The idea hasn't even occurred to him this time.

**Elsie**

Twenty-four hours later, the curtain is ready to go back up in the dining room, washed and pressed and the rip mended so neatly that it disappears invisibly into the heavy folds of fabric.

Elsie hands it up to Mr Barrow, who stands on the ladder, and tries to explain how to hook it back onto the rail. He's a quick learner, and they have it up in no time. She watches while he works away, and not for the first time, she wonders what's under that glove.

When he's done, he climbs down and stands back to admire the result. "Well, that's the best Thomas the Hallboy can do," he says, giving the rehung curtain a careful final tweak. "I hope Mrs Miller the Housekeeper is satisfied?"

Elsie feels herself blush. "Oh no. That would be strange. Mrs Miller is my mum." She's proud of her handiwork, of course, but she's even happier that it's not just being taken for granted. That is a new experience, in this house. She can't help herself. "Thomas the Hallboy?" she ventures tentatively.

"Oh yes, that takes me back." A corner of Mr Barrow's mouth curls upwards. "Eighteen months of toiling underground like a pit pony, until they finally put me in a livery and let me go up and breathe some real air."

"Eighteen months is fast," Elsie points out.

"Yes, well, I'd had a growth spurt, and the pimples were mostly gone by then, too, so they figured I could be let out without the family fainting at the sight of me."

Elsie stifles a giggle.

The door opens, and Mr Jenkins looks in. "Are you done with the ladder?" he asks, his small watery eyes darting suspiciously from the maid to the butler and back again.

Something rather frightening happens then. Elsie is almost sure she's just seen Mr Barrow smile, but that was very different from the way he does it now. She's glad that she's not on the receiving end of this one.

"We've been done for quite a while, Mr Jenkins," Mr Barrow says to the gardener in a voice as smooth as silk. "You may take it back now."

Elsie feels a sudden compulsion to run out of the room, to put as much distance as she can between herself and the two men. But she can't, can she, when Mr Barrow manages to just stand there with his hands behind his back, watching unhelpfully, still with that awful cold smile on his face, as Mr Jenkins laboriously takes off his heavy boots by the door, pads into the room, picks up the ladder, manoeuvers it carefully out again without knocking any of the delicate furniture over and then puts it down so he can pull his boots back on. When the door finally closes behind the disgruntled gardener and the two of them are alone again, Mr Barrow drops the mask.

"Well done," he says quietly.

"I'm not sure," Elsie bursts out, thinking how all of this will have reached Lady Stiles' ears by the end of the day, and how it might be construed.

"I am," Mr Barrow says. "Stand tall. Defend your territory. Don't let them trespass on what's rightfully yours."

And with that, he walks out, too, and she goes on fretting alone.

**Thomas**

It's not until he has been at Stiles Court for nearly a week that Thomas begins to understand why exactly they're allowing the place to slowly fall to pieces.

He spends almost all of Saturday morning in his pantry with the books. Thomas has looked over Mr Carson's shoulder long enough to know that they're in good order, especially since Mr Grant took over. He wonders briefly why the previous butler didn't even stay a year, and makes a mental note to ask Sir Mark when the opportunity offers.

But in the afternoon, when he goes to meet Sir Mark in the library as appointed, Sir Mark has other things on his mind. The builders fixed the leak in the roof on Monday, but they also urgently recommended an overhaul of the entire structure to prevent further damage. They have sent over a quote, and Sir Mark groans when he sees the estimated costs.

"And this really is necessary?" he asks, sounding more resigned than irritated.

"The foreman insisted that they barely scratched the surface on Monday, sir," Thomas reports quite truthfully. "He says it's only a matter of time until the damp gets into the beams, and then -"

"Yes, yes, I understand," Sir Mark cuts him off, then broods for a long moment in silence, eyes closed wearily. "I'll let you know when you can make the appointment," he says finally and glances up at the portrait that hangs above his desk.

Thomas, who still has three or four other things on his list, doesn't move. While he waits for Sir Mark to brace himself to face even more pesky realities, he studies the portrait in detail for the first time. It's an oil painting in modern style, showing a youngish man, maybe in his thirties, in the dress uniform of a naval officer. The face is rather non-descript otherwise, but the Stiles nose is unmistakable. And this picture makes a lot of sense of the many seascapes on the walls in the other rooms, too.

"He was a good lad," Sir Mark says suddenly, and Thomas realises with embarrassment that he's let himself be caught.

"Your son, sir?" he asks, sensing that he's not only permitted to be curious, but will disappoint if he isn't.

Sir Mark nods, takes a deep breath, closes his mouth again, straightens his shoulders. Thomas has seen enough death in his life, and seen enough bereaved parents, too, to know the story even before it bursts out of the old man in short, painful spurts, like blood from an arterial wound.

HMS Tipperary, Jutland, 1916, gone down in flames after a mere four minutes of brutal shelling by the enemy, a hundred and fifty men out of a hundred and ninety-six going down with her, Sir Mark's only son and heir among them.

Thomas stops wondering there and then why the Stileses don't have the strength to leave this place in better shape to whatever unloved distant relative will eventually inherit it, and probably put it up for sale right away.

He takes his leave with a quiet word of sympathy and files his list of remaining technicalities away to sort out some other day.

**Elsie**

Sunday afternoon again, and Elsie finally has a bit of quiet time at her mother's bedside to talk about the recent changes at Stiles Court.

"You like him," her mother states with uncanny clarity while Elsie winds tight fresh bandages around her mother's legs to ease the swelling. It's not as bad now as it was during the summer months, thank heaven. Her mother is even up and about the house again for a few hours every day.

"I don't like him in that way, mum," Elsie protests, thinking of Mr Barrow's greying temples. "He's probably twice as old as I am."

"And I didn't mean it that way," her mother says calmly. "But I get the feeling that you go to work with a lighter heart than you used to."

"That's no surprise, with Mr Grant gone."

"It wasn't like that a week ago, and Grant's been gone for a month."

"Well, if you insist." Elsie tucks the end of the first bandage in and starts on the second."How's Billy doing at Mr Henderson's?"

"Oh, splendidly. Mr Henderson says Billy's so clever, he could be an engineer if he went back to school."

"Well, maybe he will, one day."

"There's lots of boys around here would give an arm and a leg to be taken on as an apprentice electrician, Elsie."

"I know, mum."

Mother and daughter look at each other for a moment. Elsie knows how much her mother hates it that her barely grown children work to support her, rather than the way it should be. She finishes the second bandage in silence, then helps her mother sit up in bed. Right on cue, her little sister Meg arrives with tea on a tray.

"How's life at the big house?" Meg asks in that carefree way that only fourteen year olds who still enjoy the luxury of going to school can afford.

"Fine," Elsie says curtly.

"But not fine in _that_ way," her mother adds, and they all laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thomas**

Thomas has been at Stiles Court for a week, but he hasn't written h- - to anyone at Downton yet. He did toy with the idea, on those very first, very quiet nights, but he didn't want to seem needy, and there was nothing to tell, anyway. But at least one person over there will start worrying if she keeps hearing nothing, and he owes her at least a little sign of life.

The weather is mild this Sunday afternoon, so he throws the window of his pantry open and sits down right inside the narrow rectangle of sunlight that falls into the room. He picks up his pen, intending to write no more than a few lines. But when he puts it down again, he has covered six closely written pages. The sun has long moved on by then, but he can still feel its warmth.

It's as if the people over at Downton have only waited for him to signal that he's not forgotten them yet, and that he doesn't insist on being forgotten by them, either. Over the next weeks, as the situation at Stiles Court deteriorates, it's the letters from Downton that buoy him up.

Phyllis writes back first, of course, and yes, she signs her letter that way, with her Christian name, as if the past fifteen years had never happened. He didn't dare make the first move there, but he'll gladly imitate her next time. Things at Downton seem just fine. Lady Edith has returned in triumph from Brancaster with her parents. Mr Molesley got into a bit of a spat with Mr Dawes the Headmaster over forcing left-handed pupils to write with their right or not, but is settling into his job and his cottage nicely. The children are thriving.

Resilient little things, of course they would be.

Thomas puts her letter in his inside breast pocket and carries it with him like a talisman while he goes about his routine, day in, day out, with hardly any variation ever.

"Oh no, not very much," Mrs Jenkins told him when he asked her if the Stileses entertain often, and so far "not very much" amounts to "never". It's beyond him how they don't just drop dead of boredom. The most exciting thing that happens all week is the vicar and his wife calling for tea on Wednesday. Lady Stiles insists that her entire household attends church with her and Sir Mark on Sundays, so Thomas has already resigned himself to an hour of the man's unctuous, self-righteous droning every week. Now he's being treated to an extra dose. By the end of it, Thomas has learned everything he's never wanted to know about the selfless missionary work of the Stileses' daughter, who is married to an army officer stationed in Bechualand.

When the reverend and his wife are seen out and the upstairs tea is cleared away, Thomas goes to have a cup and a bite of his own before he gets started on the dining room.

The back door at the end of the downstairs passage stands open in the last golden glow of the October afternoon.

In the servants' hall, he finds a pot of tea under a cosy and a slice of pound cake on a plate. His concerns that it might have been a bad idea to antagonise the husband of the woman he depends on for his physical sustenance were unfounded. Either Mr Jenkins didn't mind being put in his place over the business with the curtains, or - more likely - he didn't even realise that he was being put in his place. Whichever way, Thomas' lonely meals in the servants' hall still come with clockwork regularity and in just the same quantity and quality – both acceptable - as before. Or maybe cooks are just by nature incapable of letting anyone starve out of spite.

Thomas pours himself a cup and pulls out his chair to sit down. Then he has a better idea.

**Elsie**

The boot room at Stiles Court is a low narrow cavern with very bad light, so Elsie takes Lady Stiles' shoes and the kit outside into the afternoon sun. She's nearly done polishing the pair when someone speaks up behind her.

"Do you live on thin air, Elsie, or would you like a cuppa, too?"

She turns and sees Mr Barrow standing in the open back door, holding a cup of tea in each hand. She smiles and wipes her hands clean on a cloth, then takes the cup he's offering. A narrow chunk of cake sits on the saucer beside it. Its counterpart is on his.

"Thank you, that's kind," she says. "I don't often find the time."

"Maybe you should. You must be starving by the time you get home to dinner. Why don't we make it a regular thing, downstairs tea at a quarter past five? Doesn't have to take long."

Elsie smiles. "I'd like that."

There's a silence while they both drink their tea and eat their cake.

"Lady Stiles is a very pious woman, isn't she?" Mr Barrow asks then.

"You could say that. But I'm not complaining. That's what got me my job."

"Oh?"

"I was at the vicarage before. With the old vicar, Mr Oldroyd. But then he retired and went to live in Bath. I could have gone with him, only I didn't want to leave my mum. She's not well. But the new vicar brought his own girl with him. So Lady Stiles took me on, in spite of -" She breaks off. No, she's not ready yet to finish that sentence. Somehow she really doesn't want Mr Barrow to think badly of her, even for the things she can't help. She shrugs and hopes to get away with that.

He looks at her with narrowed eyes, waiting for her to continue, but when she starts packing up the shoe things instead, he lets it go.

**Thomas**

Sir Mark has been waiting alone in the drawing room ahead of dinner for a shocking total of five minutes when Lady Stiles comes down.

"I'm so sorry I'm late, my dear," Thomas hears her say to her husband as he holds the door open for her. "But that fool girl broke my favourite mother-of-pearl comb, so we had to start all over again."

Sir Mark makes a vaguely irritated noise and folds up his newspaper. Has nobody ever told him that this would be a great moment to say something like "Never mind, my dear, you look very nice to me"? But maybe that's what being married for fifty years does to people.

The fool girl has of course gone home by the time Thomas is done in the dining room, and he doesn't see her again until after upstairs tea on the next day. She's getting out fresh sheets for the beds from the airing cupboard in what used to be the housekeeper's room. Thomas sees her in there when he walks past the open door. He considers this room to be her domain rather than his, so instead of walking in, he knocks on the doorjamb and waits for her to look around. When she does, her eyes are red and puffy.

"Tea?" he asks, because "Oh dear, what's wrong?" or "Have you been crying?" are the last things people want to hear when they've been caught at it, as he knows only too well.

Elsie nods, and he walks on to wait for her in the servants' hall. Mrs Jenkins has baked scones, and the ones she's set aside for him are even still a bit warm. Thomas pushes the plate towards Elsie when she arrives. She hesitates.

"There's enough to feed five of us," he points out.

"It's not that, sir, I - I'm just not sure where to sit."

Oh. Well, it's the first time they share a meal in this room, so she's right to ask. Tradition would dictate that the housemaid sits about four places down the long table from the butler, with the housekeeper, lady's maid, valet and footmen in between, but, well. There's little point in bowing to tradition if the effect would be mostly humoristic.

He leans across and pulls out the chair immediately to his left. Maybe because at Downton, that's where Phyllis Baxter sits. Elsie nods thank you and accepts the invitation.

For a while, neither of them says anything.

"All a bit much?" Thomas asks then, because after all, the second worst thing after fussing over a person who's just had a cry is pretending it never happened at all.

"No, I'm fine," Elsie says and immediately, the tears well up in her eyes again.

"Oh what tosh" seems a bit harsh as a response, so Thomas just puts that in a look. Then he busies himself with buttering a scone to give her the chance to collect herself. He's not really sure how to do this - the comforting thing, not the scone - but he's willing to wait and see what happens.

"It's just -" Elsie sniffs. "She expects me to be this perfect lady's maid, but I'm not. I'm just not."

"What, perfect?" Good Lord, who is?

"No. A lady's maid."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. I can clean and dust and sew and mend, and I know about the linen and all that, and I could even serve at table if they'd let me. I did all that at the vicarage for years before I came here. But the vicar was a widower, so I know nothing about hair and nails and hats and jewellery, and there's never been anyone to show me."

Well, that's absurd. "And Lady Stiles knows that?"

"Of course. She says if I only made an effort, I'd pick it up more quickly."

"But there are courses for that kind of thing. You could learn a lot there in just a month. I'm sure they have them in York."

"I know. But Lady Stiles says she can't spare me that long."

Thomas shakes his head. "Books?" he suggests.

"My sister Meg looked in the church library for me, but they haven't got any like that."

No, unlikely. "Well, I – " he says, but just then Mrs Jenkins appears in the doorway, hands on her hips.

"Mr Barrow? I can hear the telephone ringing up in the hall, and there's no one on duty."

Of course there isn't, when anyone who could be is busy eating her scones and wallowing in misery down here. Thomas drags up a smile from somewhere and gets to his feet.

**Elsie**

Elsie wishes Mr Barrow could just have let the phone ring that day, but there's no help for it. Lady Howard is asking the Stileses to some gathering of local magnates at Castle Howard in November, and Lady Stiles will want to look the part. But Elsie doesn't want her mother to fret about her fretting, so she doesn't mention it on Sunday afternoon when they go for a walk together.

"Mum?" she asks as they pick their slow way along the path by the mill creek, her mother leaning on her arm. "What would you say if – if I went away for a month? Just to York? To learn to be a real lady's maid?"

Her mother stops, surprised. "You already are a lady's maid, Elsie."

"Not really."

"But who would pay for it?"

"I don't know. Me, I suppose. Maybe I could get a loan for the course and a month's leave from the Stileses, and then I could come back and work for them again after."

"Elsie." Her mother starts moving again, but not before giving her daughter a sidelong glance that says plainly that she must have lost her mind. "Why on earth would Lady Stiles agree to do without you for a month and then take you back when you could ask for higher pay? I thought we'd agreed that your job was a godsend. Who's putting silly dreams into your head now?"

"No one," Elsie says quickly, because even mothers don't need to know everything. She takes a deep breath and sighs. "All right, forget about it, please. It was just a thought. Are you tired? Shall we turn back?"

* * *

Mr Barrow is not in his pantry when she returns to the house that evening, and on Monday, she only sees him from afar while he organises the builders who have come back for the roof. They'll be here for a whole week this time, so they need space to store their tools and supplies, and Elsie does her best to keep out of their way as they trudge up and down the narrow back stairs.

Tuesday sees a trip to the dressmaker in York with Lady Stiles, to check if she can still be made to fit into a heavy purple-and-silver velvet affair that Elsie hasn't taken out for nearly a year, what with the Stileses no longer going to London for the season.

This could even be exciting if Elsie got a little time to herself to stroll around and look at the shops. But it turns out that there's none of that, apart from a quick side trip to the chemist's to get a new supply of Lady Stiles' favourite bath salts.

When they arrive back at the house and Mr Barrow hands Lady Stiles out of the car, she turns to Elsie. "Please come up ten minutes earlier than usual tonight," she instructs her. "There's something I want to talk to you about."

Elsie nods, in duty bound. She glances at Mr Barrow, but his face, also in duty bound, is blank.

When Elsie goes up later, Lady Stiles sits in an armchair by the fire, her hands clasped in her lap, her back very straight.

"It has come to my ears, Elsie," she says in a rather shrill tone, "that you are not content with your position here."

Elsie gasps. Her heart starts hammering very fast. "That's not true, my Lady," she hastens to object. "Not true at all. I'm – I'm very grateful for your patience, and your – "

"You seem to have told Mr Barrow a very different story."

"No, I haven't." Elsie's palms start feeling damp, and she resists the urge to wipe them on her skirts. "If Mr Barrow says that, he must have misunderstood me very badly, my Lady. He asked about my qualifications, yes, and I told him the truth about that. But I never said I was unhappy here, and I'm not, I swear."

Lady Stiles' face softens just a little. "Well, that is reassuring. I dare say you have no reason to be." And with that, Lady Stiles rises to take her place at the dressing table. "I think I'll wear the lavender one tonight," she says over her shoulder, concluding the matter.

Elsie goes to fetch the frock with a lump still sitting firmly in her throat, feeling horribly betrayed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thomas**

What with the workmen stomping up and down the stairs, large bundles of roof tiles and tool boxes obstructing the downstairs passage and the servants' hall mostly given over to beer and sandwiches for the workers' break times, Thomas nearly doesn't notice that Elsie skips their tea together for the first time in almost a week. He supposes she's just too busy, which makes sense with the Stileses' trip to Castle Howard coming up. But when she doesn't show up on the next day either, nor on the day after that, he starts – not to worry, really, but to wonder.

There are three books sitting in the bottom drawer of his desk right now that are waiting to reach their true destination, and he'd like a chance to pass them on. Phyllis has risen to the occasion magnificently. The little package arrived barely three days after he'd asked.

The largest of the books is the standard handbook of her trade, the 1920 edition. Another is a dressmaking manual, and the third is specifically about doing hair. This one is a little older, from before the war, but it should still be good in a household as conservative as this. It has the name "A. M. Smith" on the flyleaf, and it takes Thomas a moment to remember who exactly that is. When he does, it makes him smile. As does the note that flutters out of the book when he takes it out of its wrapping. He doesn't quite buy the bit about Mr Bates sending "his warmest regards, too", but he's willing to believe in regards of a more realistic temperature.

Now all that needs to happen is for Elsie to show her face and collect the spoils. But by Friday, all he has seen of her for three days is the hem of her skirt whisking around the corner whenever he approaches any place where she could be.

Thomas racks his brains trying to understand what's happened. He's sure it must be his fault. Nothing else has changed. And there it is again, the nagging little voice in his head that tries to tell him that she somehow _knows_ , that she has somehow _found out_. It's not the first time he's suddenly being cold-shouldered by someone he used to get along with, after all. But no, she can't know. How would she? And besides, he has an uncanny talent for rubbing people up the wrong way even without disgusting them outright, hasn't he?

Has he been too familiar with her, too easy-going? Mr Grant must have been a right old martinet if Elsie avoided even talking to him. Maybe she's remembered that it used to be unthinkable to have tea and a chat with the high and mighty butler? Thomas may think of their respective responsibilities as two separate sovereign kingdoms, but of course that doesn't stop him being technically her superior.

Or has he frightened her away? Is she ashamed now of the things she's told him, of her lack of training, of her struggle to satisfy Lady Stiles' impossible expectations? Is she worried that he will hold it against her? _Use_ it against her?

He has no answers. He feels like a child that has been told off but doesn't understand why, and it's awful. So much for starting over with a clean slate. He's not even been here for a month, and he's already made a complete hash of it.

Thomas gives up on waiting for an opportunity to hand the books over in person. He puts them in the airing cupboard in the old housekeeper's room instead, where no one except Elsie will look.

The next day, they're back on his desk. Thomas stares at them for a moment, then throws them back in the bottom drawer and kicks it shut.

**Elsie**

Elsie doesn't want her mother to see her cry. Never, actually, but especially not now, and especially not over this. So she pretends all Sunday afternoon that everything's fine, even though she nearly chokes on her smiles.

It's her own fault, really. She should never have been so ready to trust someone she barely knew. But she doesn't need her mother to rub it in.

To be honest, the idea that Mr Barrow should be a talebearer still surprises her. She knows that Mrs Jenkins is - thick as thieves with Lady Stiles, always has been. But she thought that with Mr Barrow, her secrets would be safe, and it hurts to know that she was mistaken. Does he _want_ her to lose her job? Does he think it's beneath the Stileses' dignity to be served by someone who doesn't know their trade properly? Does he think it's beneath _his_ dignity to share the servants' hall with someone as slow and stupid as her?

And then the books turn up in the airing cupboard, and she's completely addled. Is it a trick? A trap? Who are P. Baxter and A. M. Smith, anyway?

The safest thing, it seems to her, is to get rid of them again as quickly as she can. So she drops them on his desk during luncheon on Saturday, when he's sure to be upstairs, as if they've burned her fingers.

On Sunday evening, when she waits at the level crossing with her bike, running late again, a young man stands there waiting with her for the five forty to York to pass. He touches his cap to her and smiles. When the signalman opens the gate and they walk across the tracks, he introduces himself as Simon Reed, and she remembers where she's seen him before. He's one of the builders who came to work on the roof last week. He's not very tall, but very wide in the shoulders, and has a shock of reddish hair and a freckled, round face that looks made for laughter. He tells her that he must have left one of their tool boxes at the house yesterday, and the foreman will be livid if it's missing tomorrow morning. So would it be all right to go up there with her and fetch it?

Of course it's all right. Very much so. She has enjoyed the brief illusion that she could ever feel at ease around anyone at Stiles Court, but this young man reminds her that it's much more likely to happen down here in the village, among her own people.

* * *

The builders stop working at sundown at this time of the year, so they soon fall into a comfortable routine. Simon meets Elsie at the gate into the park every night to see her home when she finishes at seven. She pushes her bike as they amble along and talk, and she finds herself really enjoying his company, and not just because she doesn't like being alone in the dark.

It turns out that Simon's younger brother went to school with Billy, and Simon and Billy have even worked together recently on a building site. And now Simon wants to know all about _her_ , about her work, and what films she likes (not that she gets to go often, except as a birthday treat), and whether she enjoys dancing, because there's going to be a dance at the village hall in December, and maybe she'd like to go with him? And Elsie laughs at his jokes and chats away and feels strangely alive, as if she has waited for a whole year for Simon to come along and make her see that there's more to life than work, and there are people out there for whom she's neither a burden nor a nuisance.

She decides then that it's silly to keep avoiding Mr Barrow, too. Didn't he tell her himself to stand tall and not let herself be pushed around? She'll always have to be careful what she tells him now, and she's never going to volunteer anything personal again, but that doesn't mean that she can't talk to him like a normal human being when their work requires it. So that's what she does, and if he's surprised at the return of what little confidence she can muster, then that's a little victory in itself, isn't it?

**Thomas**

The first letter Thomas receives from Mrs Hughes since he left Downton is like a punch in the gut. It's not her fault, not at all - just very, very bad timing. He really shouldn't have gushed about how well he was getting on with Elsie. Mrs Hughes couldn't have known how quickly things would go pear-shaped. And so everything she says now, how delighted she is that he's making friends, and that she blesses her young namesake for making him so welcome, just hurts. The fact that she signs her letter "Your affectionate friend, E. Carson" doesn't exactly help, either, it still sounds so wrong.

Thomas puts off thanking Phyllis and Anna for the books, too. He'd have liked to tell them that they were well received, but he just can't bring himself to report that they were not received at all.

When Phyllis writes again a week later to ask whether they even arrived safely, he feels like a terrible coward, picks up his pen and pours all his misery out of his heart and onto the paper. Then he burns the result in the grate, writes a new, much watered-down version, hedged around with trivialities, and posts that one.

A few days later - he can't remember how many exactly, they seem to flow into each other in their dull monotony - there is a response from an unexpected quarter.

_Dear Mr Barrow,_

it says in strong, even cursive,

_Miss Baxter and Anna have informed me of the essence of your last letter. I'll leave it to them to express sympathy and regret. All I have to say about your current situation is that there must be a reason_

(these last four words are underlined for emphasis)

_for such a sudden change, and I'm shocked, shocked_

(this is underlined twice)

_that Thomas Barrow of all people hasn't even tried to find out what it is._

_Good luck, J. Bates._

If Mrs Hughes' letter was like a punch, this is like a bucket of cold water over Thomas' head. It literally wakes him up.

He has a lot of tasks to do all day that are mind-numbingly mechanical, so they leave him a lot of time to think. And once he gets back in the habit, the revelations pop into his head almost too quickly to get them into any kind of order.

He was such a fool to think that just because he used to be a master schemer, any scheming going on in this house would have to originate with him, and as long as _he_ wouldn't instigate any, there would be none.

Mrs Jenkins really has no business going up to Lady Stiles' room several times a week to "discuss the menus". Was he just too busy until now to notice how often it happens? And listening at doors without getting caught is an art that Thomas has perfected over many years, of course, but it's also as plain as day that if he can do it, then so can others.

He can't believe how easy he's made it for her.

For a while, he's at a loss to understand Mrs Jenkins' motivation for undermining his budding whatever-it-was – was it even friendship, or is that far too big a word anyway? – with Elsie. Jealousy? No, it's more likely that this is where Lady Stiles' horror of anything supposedly unseemly comes in. It must be extremely easy to score points with Her Ladyship on that front, even if there's absolutely no truth to the story. Once there's an obsession to feed, the imagination will fill in whatever is lacking in hard evidence.

Where does this strange fixation come from? Who, or what, convinced Lady Stiles that every time a man and a woman exchange a few friendly words, they're in danger of eternal damnation?

By the time he's got to this question, Thomas' daily round has taken him to the library to refill the decanter that Sir Mark sometimes helps himself from when he sits up with a book or the paper. He's alone in the room, apart from the Stileses' dead son, so Thomas walks over to the desk to look at the portrait again. Water-blue eyes stare back at him from under the peak of the uniform cap. There's never been a mention of a widow, and yet Stiles junior must have been about the same age Thomas is now when he went to his cold, wet grave at the bottom of the North Sea. That's late to still be unmarried, especially for someone with a title and an estate to inherit.

Thomas wonders for a moment whether he's looking at a kindred spirit, and cringes at the string of excuses that a man in Stiles' position would have had to come up with in order to put off marriage and children for so long. His parents and everyone else would have been pushing relentlessly.

But now he's being romantic. The truth is probably much simpler. Thomas bets that if he had John Bates' dubious skill of picking locks without leaving traces, he'd find receipts for alimony payments in the drawers of Sir Mark's desk, and he'd also know the name of the girl who wasn't deemed good enough to be the true wedded wife of a minor member of the aristocracy. He hopes she's come out from under that shadow by now and found someone else, someone who'd put up a real fight for her at need.

Thomas glances up at the portrait again. Honestly, who even names their son Mark Anthony and then expects him to make a success of a naval battle?

* * *

The confirmation of his suspicions is just around the corner.

Thomas may not have expected to do much listening at doors at Stiles Court, especially since it's no challenge any more because there's no one who might catch him. But that doesn't mean he's above it. So of course he perks up his ears when he's about to go in and announce dinner to Sir Mark and Lady Stiles in the drawing room that same night and hears his own name mentioned. He waits outside, hand on the doorknob.

"… really not have expected it of her," Lady Stiles is saying. "The Millers are well respected in the village, and Mr Oldroyd attested to her highest moral character. I do not like to think that she duped him, too."

"Is Barrow encouraging her, do you think?" Sir Mark asks.

Thomas blinks. What are they even _talking_ about? But that's the point, isn't it. She just sees it everywhere.

"I really hope not!" Lady Stiles exclaims, her voice trembling with righteous indignation. "I suppose those cosy tea times were her idea. She probably told him it was normal in this house. At any rate, I've dealt with it. Mrs Jenkins tells me the girl is keeping her distance now, and if she knows what's good for her, she'll stick to it."

Sir Mark grunts in assent.

"And now I should very much like to know – "

The change in Lady Stiles' voice indicates that she's turned around impatiently to look either at the clock or at the door or both. Thomas takes a fraction of a second to compose his features into what's expected, then throws the door open and announces dinner.

* * *

Later that night, when he lies on his bed in the privacy of his attic bedroom, staring at the low ceiling, he wishes Bates had told him what to do with this knowledge, now that he has it. As so often, he's left with an impossible choice. The only sure way to convince both Elsie and Lady Stiles that the girl has nothing, _nothing_ to fear from him in that department would come at the price of losing his job and ruining his reputation, which are the two only things he has left to get him through life. But if he stays silent, he can't even nod good morning to the girl any more without putting _her_ job and _her_ reputation at risk, and who gives him the right to do that?

Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't. And doesn't that have a lovely familiar ring to it.

Thomas squeezes his eyes shut. If he can get the tears out quicker and be done, maybe he can sleep the sooner.

**Elsie**

The Stileses' invitation to Castle Howard comes unrelentingly closer.

In the week leading up to it, Elsie wishes more than once that she had kept Mr Barrow's books and studied them a bit, especially the one about the hairstyles. But she can't very well go back and ask for them now. She's fretted about this to Simon, but he had nothing to offer expect sympathetic shrugs, and she doesn't want to burden her mother. Meg agrees to sit still long enough sometimes so Elsie can try out something with her younger sister's hair, but Meg's is as bushy as Elsie's own, and she always loses interest quickly, anyway.

When the day itself is there, Elsie is so nervous when she dresses Lady Stiles that she fumbles and keeps dropping things.

"It's a good thing we've started so early," Lady Stiles remarks drily when she's finally hooked into her finery and Elsie puts a gown around her shoulders to protect the stately dress while she does her hair. Elsie swallows a sigh and picks up the tiara that sits ready on the table.

Three quarters of an hour later, Mr Jenkins – who has squeezed himself into a chauffeur's uniform for the occasion that looks at least two sizes too small - has the car at the door, the Stileses are settled in the back, and Elsie hands Lady Stiles her purse and a rug to keep warm on the return journey tonight. Then she steps back, Mr Barrow closes the car door, and they're off.

Elsie heaves her long-delayed sigh then, but Mr Barrow, correct to a fault as always, only relaxes his stance when the car disappears from view into the evening twilight.

"You're welcome to the servants' hall until they get back," he says in an awfully formal voice then. "I'll do my best to keep out of your way."

"Thank you," she says, forcing herself to sound equally aloof. "But I'll go down and eat with my family. I have someone who will see me safely back here later to see Her Ladyship to bed."

"Oh. Good."

He puts his hands behind his back and turns to walk away. Elsie follows him with her eyes and feels a sudden pang to her heart. It's nice to have Simon waiting for her at the end of the day, of course, and he needn't have volunteered to escort her late tonight just because Lady Stiles can't imagine taking off her tiara on her own. But she still wishes so much that there was a way to get the Mr Barrow of the first few weeks back.

It occurs to her only when he's disappeared into the house that if he really was a gossip and Lady Stiles' informant, he would have jumped at the opportunity to enquire who exactly will be walking through the darkness with her at such a late hour. But he didn't ask. He didn't even raise an eyebrow. _I'll do my best to keep out of your way_ was all he said, and suddenly Elsie knows that she must have got it wrong, she must have got it all so horribly wrong. She wants to run after him to tell him so, but he's already gone.

**Thomas**

Thomas goes upstairs to change out of his work clothes into something more comfortable, then looks in on Mrs Jenkins in the kitchen to let her know that neither he nor Elsie will need to be fed tonight after all while they wait for the Stileses to return.

"I'm off to the pub, I'll eat something there," he says, and Mrs Jenkins nods, looking more relieved than she'd ever let on. It means she has a whole evening to herself now, too, and who knows how often that happens.

Sometimes Thomas still hates her for ruining whatever chance he had to be friends with Elsie. And of course he could think of a hundred different ways to pay her back, to make her life hell at every turn, but what good would that do? At worst she'd quit, and then he'd probably be expected to do the cooking on top of everything else, too.

Besides, he's fairly sure that there was no real malice in her manoeuvering. The Jenkinses are getting on, just like the Stileses themselves, and he can understand her need to ingratiate herself with her mistress at any cost, lest someone younger take her place. And maybe she was just a little jealous after all. Who knows whether she actually enjoys her own splendid isolation, forever stuck on the same trajectory between her cottage and the big kitchen, with no one for company either except that dreary husband of hers?

"You wouldn't want to walk down with me, would you, Mrs Jenkins?" he asks on a sudden impulse. "I suppose you've got friends in the village you might want to see? We'd still be back long before they return from Castle Howard."

"Oh no, that wouldn't be right," she objects at once. "I, er – I thought I'd make an early start on the Christmas baking."

"As you wish." He claps his hat on and pulls on his gloves. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Thank you for asking, though," she mumbles as she turns away to the oven. Or does she?

* * *

It's not the first time by any means that Thomas goes to the village pub. He's never thought of himself as a social animal before, but ever since the day when he communed silently in the library with Commander Stiles and decided that there was nothing he could do to improve the atmosphere in the house itself, he's looked to branch out a bit, and to find what distraction he can elsewhere.

The first thing Thomas changed was the age-old custom at Stiles Court that half-days must be taken on Sundays. It might suit Elsie and her family, and who knows about the Jenkinses, and they can all keep doing it as far as he's concerned. But he's the butler now, so he's the one who draws up the staff roster, and if it says that Mr Barrow gets Tuesday morning off because that's when the shops in York are open, then that is what happens, the Fourth Commandment be damned.

The next thing that occurred to him was that the village might have a cricket team that he could join, once the season starts again in the spring. So one Friday night, when the Stileses had retired early as usual, he put on his hat and went down to the pub. It was packed, Friday being pay day for a lot of the working men. The man who serves as verger at the village church recognised him from the Sunday services and called him over at once, and that was that.

Thomas will never feel truly at home among these rustic gentlemen, farmers and small tradesmen who down their pints in muddy boots and make coarse jokes and pat him on the back in ways that make him want to cough and wheeze. But it's still better than just being stuck in the attic of Stiles Court with a book every night.

And he has learned a useful thing or two from the locals as well. The very first pat on the back he got was when the verger introduced them all, and they were joking about Thomas stepping into Mr Grant's shoes. They somehow found it extremely funny to advise him to "Never mind the shoes, just keep the trousers on", roaring with laughter while the man who had been named to Thomas as the local postmaster only nodded morosely.

Bates would turn up his nose at just how easy _that_ was to find out, but it goes a long way to explain why Elsie preferred to leave the former butler notes rather than facing him in the flesh, and why she never wanted to sit down to meals with him. But sadly, it also doesn't help to redeem Thomas in Lady Stiles' eyes, since she seems to think that a lack of control over this particular urge is intrinsic to the job. Stiles junior and their last butler between them seem to have successfully killed whatever little faith Lady Stiles ever had in men's plain common decency.

On his excursions to the village, Thomas has also walked across the churchyard a few times and marvelled at just how many Millers there are. There's one on the war memorial in the village square who could well be Elsie's father, but there's another set in the churchyard itself that intrigues him even more. There's a beloved wife and mother, Mary Anne, who died young in 1919, and a beloved daughter, Lilly Anne, who only gets one date for both life and death, and underneath on the same stone there's George, who lasted barely a year longer than his womenfolk. If Thomas was still on speaking terms with Elsie, he would ask.

Tonight, Thomas stays at the pub for close on two hours, drinks a pint of ale, eats bangers and mash for supper and plays a few rounds of cards with the greengrocer and the verger, who asks him if it's true that the Miller girl is going out with the Reeds' oldest. Is there a slightly concerned undertone in his voice? Thomas, mindful of his involuntary role as custodian of the girl's reputation, makes a non-committal noise and mumbles something about "not serious". Then he says good night and walks back up to the house in the crisp cold air.

There's someone going in the same direction a little ahead of him. Two someones, he sees when he gets closer, holding hands. He hears them talk in a low murmur, then they halt in the middle of the road and turn to face each other.

"Can I kiss you?" the boy asks. The verger was right, then.

"No, silly," Elsie whispers sharply. "What if someone sees?"

Thomas melts into the darkness of the trees that line the road.

"There's no one here," the boy objects, but she has already walked on. He follows, shuffling his feet.

Thomas veers away through the trees until he comes out at the lower end of the park, then walks across the lawn and approaches the back door from a different direction, a minute or two after Elsie has slipped inside, alone now.

Thomas remembers the fellow well. His true purpose for coming back to Stiles Court on that day back in October, allegedly to look for a tool box that he definitely had not left at the house the day before, was almost painfully transparent, and Thomas was very much inclined to tell him so at the time. But, he reminds himself sternly, all of this is, emphatically, not his business.

**Elsie**

The thing with the tiara was, of course, a complete disaster. Elsie did her best to pin it in place, but when the Stileses get back from Castle Howard at nearly midnight, Lady Stiles loses no time to tell her maid that it came off halfway through dinner. What _was_ she thinking, to expose her mistress to laughter and ridicule like that? If Lady Howard had not spotted the mishap straight away and graciously offered the services of her own maid – a _proper_ lady's maid, mind! - to set things right at once, who knows what more shame and humiliation Lady Stiles would have had to endure? Even so, she missed most of the main course because of Elsie's incorrigible clumsiness. They're lucky to have been invited back to the Howard's Christmas reception. Elsie will get another chance then to show that she's learned how these things are done.

Elsie lets the tirade wash over her with her head bowed. She doubts very much that anyone in the illustrious company at that table even batted so much as an eyelid, trained as such people are to smooth over any unpleasantness. But, well, this was waiting to happen. She's lucky she still has her job, and that's all that matters right now.

She only starts to cry when she's closed the door of Lady Stiles' room behind her.

When she meets Simon again at the entrance to the park, she thinks that he honestly deserves a kiss for hanging around in the cold so late just to take her home. But somehow, when he tries to put his arm around her, she brushes it off and asks him to leave her alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thomas**

December rolls around, and a hard frost arrives with it. Thomas' left hand doesn't like frost and tells him so with tedious regularity every winter. He can deal with the pain – it's been his companion for so many years, and it's mostly just a dull ache by now – but the pain has a way of bringing back the memories, too. Not so much when he's awake and busy, but they crowd in without mercy when he's asleep and his defences are down.

On the first Saturday in December, a large parcel arrives in the post bearing his name, and when he puts it on his desk in the pantry and opens it, what is inside blows all his defences to smithereens in ways that even nightmares can't.

The box is full of cellophane bags, tied with pretty red bows, and the scent that rises from them is enough to make him go weak at the knees. He fishes out a folded piece of paper from among them.

_Dear Mr Barrow,_

Mrs Patmore writes. Thomas can immediately tell it's her because the top half of the page is sprinkled with flour that has slightly smudged the ink.

_Daisy and I were baking, and like every year, I made a few extra pieces of everything so I'd have something to fill the gaps that your thieving used to leave on our trays and platters. Then I remembered that you're not here any more to thieve anything in person, so we're putting your share of the spoils in the post this year. Hope it arrives not too badly squashed. Andy is packing it as I write this. He says to say hello, of course._

He turns the sheet over.

_You may or may not remember that I told you on one of your last days here that I didn't know whether you were a good thing or a bad thing. I just wanted to let you know that Daisy gave me such an earful afterwards how out of order that was, and I agree with her now. I'm only sorry it took me so long to say it. B. P._

At the bottom of the box is another sheet of paper with a coloured drawing of a vaguely conical shape, dotted here and there with red and yellow. On the back, it says,

_Dear Thomas,_

because while Mrs Patmore seems to have finally decided to afford him the courtesy of a last name, Daisy appears to have taken a leap in the opposite direction -

_Master George drew this from memory when he got bored "helping" us with the gingerbread. The tree isn't even up yet, but as you can see he knows exactly what it's supposed to look like. He says to ask you if the tree at your new place is as big as the Downton one. Daisy (and George)_

Thomas barely hears the knock on the door, but he's glad that Mrs Jenkins is there already to tell him that luncheon is ready to go up. A few minutes later, and she would not have found a butler sitting at the desk, only a tearful mess covered in crumbs.

* * *

Thomas takes the opportunity to ask Sir Mark at the end of luncheon what Christmas traditions there are at Stiles Court that he should see to. Would they like a tree in the hall? He's found no record in the books of one having been ordered in the past years, but it could have been a present from a tenant and thus wouldn't appear in the accounts.

"A tree?" Sir Mark asks as if the idea is completely foreign to him. "I don't think so. Maybe if we had grandchildren."

The couple exchange a look, and Thomas congratulates himself on getting that bit right, at least.

"Jenkins will bring in some green boughs for the table on Christmas Day," Lady Stiles says in a slightly kinder tone than her husband.

And Thomas begins to think that Christmas at Stiles Court may actually be more bearable if he just ignores all the to-do that used to mark the occasion. The Stileses must have discovered that years ago.

**Elsie**

"I won't be here next Sunday," Elsie tells her family when they're at their Sunday tea together. Her mother is out of bed, and they're gathered around the table in the kitchen, almost like in old times. It makes for a very nice change from trays by the bedside.

"Are they working you too hard?" her mother enquires, immediately worried.

Elsie blushes. "No, I do have time off. I just -"

"She wants to go to the dance with Simon," Billy blurts out, and Elsie hates her brother just a little bit. "He told me weeks ago," Billy adds with a knowing look. "The other fellows at his work had a wager going whether or not she'd say yes."

"Oh, thank you for telling me now!" Elsie protests. Billy and Meg giggle.

Her mother smiles. "Well, if you like. You deserve a treat. Just don't get back to work late, please."

"Don't worry, mum. Simon's promised to walk me back up to the house in time." Elsie turns to Meg. "You'll be all right, won't you? With mum's medicine and bandages and dinner and all that?"

"I always make dinner," Meg points out.

"Bless you both, my girls," their mother says with tears of affection in her eyes, and for a moment, Elsie forgets all her worries.

She honestly wants to talk to Mr Barrow about what she now thinks was a terrible misunderstanding. But somehow she never manages to catch him alone any more. He's busy upstairs a lot of the time, where she can't go just like that. And when he's downstairs, either the door of the pantry is closed, or it's only a matter of time before Mrs Jenkins or her husband butt in with something or other. Elsie wants to apologise and explain her unkind behaviour and ask if they can make a new start, but not in passing and with the cook within earshot. They made the mistake once of letting Mrs Jenkins overhear a private conversation. They can't risk it happening again.

And so the matter remains unresolved while December runs its course and Christmas inches closer.

**Thomas**

The air is crackling with frost and icicles hang from the rafters of the outbuildings when Thomas steps out into the yard on the evening of the second Sunday in December. If he's quick, he'll just have time for a smoke between setting the table for dinner and helping Sir Mark struggle into his white tie and tails. And before Elsie gets in, of course.

Of all his resolutions what to change for the better in this new life of his, quitting smoking was the first he abandoned again, even before he abandoned "making friends". He's always smoked either to calm his nerves in times of stress or to sneak a break when he felt overworked, and at Stiles Court the latter still very much applies.

His freezing fingers fumble with the cigarette case and the lighter, and it takes a second and even a third attempt to strike a light. The first deep drag feels all the better for the little delay.

When he pockets the lighter again, he hears a muffled thump from somewhere to his left. He turns his head to look, but there's nothing there, just the dark shed where Elsie will stow her bicycle when she arrives. Maybe it was just a cat on the roof.

No. There's a human voice now, too. A string of low... whimpers? And they definitely come from the direction of the bike shed. Where a single fresh tyre track in the gravel already leads, directly from the gate to its door.

Thomas' heart misses a beat when he realises what that means.

By the time there's another thump, louder now, and a badly-suppressed little cry of protest, Thomas has already thrown his cigarette aside and is sprinting across the yard. If this is what he thinks it is -

He wrenches the door to the shed open, plunges into the darkness inside and pulls the bastard bodily off the girl by the scruff of his thick neck.

Reed junior is heavy, but Thomas is angry, so the younger man crashes painfully into Elsie's bike as Thomas hoists him up and flings him aside against the wooden wall. With one long step, Thomas puts himself between predator and prey, then balls his hands into fists at his sides and resists the urge to add a few extra knocks just to make his point. He's not a violent man, never has been, but God knows he'd love to rearrange the fellow's fat face right now. Behind him on the ground, he can hear Elsie sob.

"Apologies for the interruption," Thomas sneers while Reed scrambles back to his feet, panting. "But I believe your attentions are unwanted. Or which part of 'no' did you have trouble understanding?"

Reed raises his fists like a boxer, lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace of rage. "You just want her for yourself, don't you?" he croaks, spitting and hissing. "But I'll get in first in the end, you'll see."

Thomas jerks his head at the open door. "You'll get nowhere except out of here. Now."

"Or what? You'll call the coppers?" Reed lets out a laugh like a bark. "If you do, all I've got to tell 'em is she liked it."

"And how's your boss going to like it when he hears what you use his assignments for?"

This, thankfully, is enough to send the son of a bitch scarpering. He scoops up his cap from the floor, gives Thomas a last look full of hatred and leaves.

Elsie is still cowering on the ground when Thomas turns to her, clothes awry, hair wild and eyes wilder, staring at him as if at a ghost.

"Don't tell them," she whispers frantically. "Please, don't tell them, please…."

Thomas pulls off his tailcoat and wraps it around her trembling shoulders, mindful not to touch her with his bare hands. "You've got to come inside, Elsie, it's freezing out here."

"No, I can't, I can't." She breaks into fresh sobs, but when he puts his arm around her back to help her up, she leans on him gratefully. She's still shaking all over.

* * *

For the first time, Thomas is glad that the gaslight in the downstairs passage is so dim.

"Mrs Jenkins?" he calls loudly down the corridor when they come in at the door, startling the girl in his arm, but she'll understand later that this is a case of attack being the best defence.

"Elsie's had a bad fall on the icy road," he lies with ease when the cook comes hurrying towards them. "Please tell Her Ladyship and Sir Mark that dinner will be half an hour late, and they'll have to take it in their day clothes."

"Oh, they won't like that," Mrs Jenkins mutters while she looks the dishevelled girl up and down with narrowed eyes.

"Well, unless _you_ want to do Her Ladyship's hair and see Sir Mark into his tails, I don't see how it's going to happen," Thomas snaps at the cook. He really has no time for this. "Some strong hot tea would come in very useful right now, too. And if Mr Jenkins could go down to the village and tell the Millers that Elsie's staying overnight to recover, and you could lend her what she needs – "

Finally, _finally_ , the woman gets moving.

"A fall on the ice?" she says with a suspicious glance over her shoulder as she precedes them down the passage. "Nothing broken, I hope?"

Sometimes Thomas really could slap her.

"I'm fine," Elsie sniffs, convincing no one.

They part company at the foot of the back stairs, Mrs Jenkins to return to the kitchen and put the kettle on and Thomas to take the girl upstairs. She follows his lead blindly, but when they arrive at the top floor of the house and Thomas opens the door into his bedroom, she stops dead.

"Sorry, I can't. This is not right," she mutters, avoiding his eyes.

"I can ask our maid to make you up a bed in the women's wing instead," Thomas shrugs. "But she may have to get it out of the lumber room and put it back together first. I'm not sure she's up to it right now."

He leaves the door wide open, then guides Elsie to sit down on the side of his bed. One of her stockings has come loose and hangs in untidy folds around her leg, so he picks up the duvet and holds it out to her so she can cover up. Then he lights the lamp on his dresser and quickly goes through the drawers to collect what he needs to be presentable in the morning.

"Thank you," Elsie says in a small voice behind his back.

"You're welcome," Thomas replies a little stiffly, plucks the towel from the hook by the wash basin and rolls his shaving things into it.

Mrs Jenkins arrives a moment later with a tea tray and a thick flannel nightdress over her arm. She must be surprised at the sudden conversion of the butler's bedroom into a refuge for distressed housemaids, but she doesn't object.

"Her Ladyship says to ring the gong when we're done here," she informs Thomas, then turns to Elsie, who has put the duvet across her lap but not moved otherwise. "And she wishes you a speedy recovery." She puts the nightdress down and pours Elsie a cup with three lumps of sugar. "D'you want me to stay till you're settled?"

"No, please don't," Elsie says quickly. "I can manage. But thank you." The cup on the saucer rattles a little when she takes it from Mrs Jenkins, but not as much as it would have a few minutes ago.

"We'll leave you to it, then," Thomas agrees before the cook can insist. "Try and get warm."

"Wait. Your coat." Elsie puts the cup back down and hurries to slip it off her shoulders.

Thomas takes it back and puts it on again. Her Ladyship's tolerance for improper dress in the dining room only goes so far, after all. Then he invites Mrs Jenkins to walk out of the room ahead of him with a gesture of his hand.

"We'll see you in the morning," he says to Elsie from the doorway. "Oh, and by the way." He points at the dresser. "If you're hungry – top drawer. And this door has a bolt. Use it."

**Elsie**

Elsie wakes in the middle of the night, after hours of dead, dreamless sleep, and wonders for a moment where she is. The bed is unfamiliar, and so is the nightshirt she's wearing. The room is darker than her and Meg's bedroom at home, and cold. Elsie burrows deeper into the covers, wriggling her toes, and refuses to remember where she is and why, but of course the memory comes back at once.

She's so afraid. Afraid of looking anyone in the eye tomorrow morning, afraid of being summarily dismissed in dishonour and disgrace, afraid of explaining this to her mother, and afraid of Simon who, she is sure, will try again what Mr Barrow saved her from, if only to prove that he can. She's even afraid that she might be pregnant, although she's fairly sure it's not possible. She also wishes she knew why she even deserved to be rescued when it was all her own fault.

Her stomach contracts. Elsie curls up on her side and locks her arms around her knees, but the rumbling continues. It takes her quite a while to realise that she's simply hungry now, too. She hasn't eaten anything since luncheon yesterday, except for a small piece of cake at the dance, and she's feeling weak and queasy.

Elsie hesitates, but then she pushes back the covers, tiptoes over to the dresser under the window and pulls the top drawer open. She's not sure what she expected to find, but it wasn't a cloud of cinnamon and ginger and cloves rising from so many neat bags, each containing a generous helping of homemade Christmassy goodness.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed with the duvet around her shoulders, Elsie eats a mince pie, a brownie and a piece of gingerbread. They taste heavenly. Afterwards, she feels terribly guilty, but also terribly sleepy, so she curls up again and goes right back to sleep with the scent of Christmas still in her nostrils.

A knock on the door wakes her for the second time. It's still dark outside, but the clock on Mr Barrow's bedside table says it's almost seven.

"Elsie?" Mrs Jenkins calls through the closed door. "There's breakfast downstairs, and your sister's at the back door asking if you're all right."

* * *

Meg is actually waiting in the downstairs passage, and when Elsie hisses at her that she can't come in here, because what will Mr Barrow say? the girl tells her older sister blithely that it was Mr Barrow who asked her in, seeing as how it's still freezing outside.

Elsie manages to bundle Meg off with a few hasty reassurances that she's fine, it was just the shock, really, no, just a few scratches and bruises, she's good to work today and will be back home tonight as usual, not to worry.

It's only when the door closes behind Meg that Elsie remembers it's by no means sure that they'll even let her work here any more.

Mr Barrow is at the table in the servants' hall, eating breakfast and reading the paper, when she sidles in. Elsie wonders whether he found anywhere more comfortable to spend the night than the creaky old leather armchair in the butler's pantry and anywhere more private to wash and shave than the kitchen sink, but she honestly couldn't tell. He looks neat as a pin, as always.

They look at each other, and neither says a word.

"Well - what happens now?" Elsie asks when she can't bear the silence any longer. She realises she's kneading her hands, but she can't keep them still.

"Now?" he asks back, raising his dark eyebrows as if the question surprises him. "Now you can ask Mrs Jenkins for a bowl of porridge and some toast, and then you can go and dress Her Ladyship."

"But - but I'm not – dismissed?" Elsie breathes.

"Dismissed? For taking a fall on the ice?"

Elsie's eyes fill with tears. "But I've – I've been so - "

" - trusting?" Mr Barrow suggests, and a corner of his mouth goes up in a quizzical half-smile. "Well, now you know that there are people who deserve it and people who don't. Do yourself a favour and learn to tell the difference."

"I will, sir." Oh yes, this is a lesson she won't forget for the rest of her life.

His eyes are already back on the paper when she recalls something else.

"Mr Barrow?"

"Mmh?"

"Thank you for the pastry. I hope I've not taken too much."

He merely nods and turns a page, and the questions Elsie is bursting to ask – who loves him so much that they made such an effort, and does he even know that this is love? – die on her lips.

**Thomas**

Thomas ponders the question how Elsie will get home safely to her family. He knows as well as she does that as soon as she sets a foot outside the boundaries of the park, there's nothing to stop Simon Reed accosting her and completing his unfinished business. And even if he doesn't, or not right away, the fear that it could happen any time will be unbearable.

When Elsie comes down ahead of the upstairs dinner – the time when she normally leaves – it's clear that she has found no solution.

"I'm off, then," she says, standing in the open door of his pantry, and she's already trembling almost as badly again as she did last night.

"Are you sure you're done for the day?" he asks, looking up from a little last minute polishing of a candlestick. "Nothing to wash or mend or clean that can't wait till tomorrow?"

"No, sir, I don't think so."

She really doesn't get it. Maybe it's this complete lack of guile in everything she says and does that makes him feel so strangely protective of her.

"Well, _find_ something," he says pointedly. "Rip something, if need be, and if you've stitched it up before upstairs dinner is over, rip it again. They can't blame you for doing overtime. I'll meet you in the yard as soon as I'm free."

Her eyes grow wide as she finally catches on.

Now that wasn't so hard, was it?

* * *

When they do meet in the yard two hours later, Thomas insists that she goes into the shed and fetches her bike herself. She probably thinks that's cruel, but she'll have to keep using the place if she wants to keep working here, and the sooner it becomes a normal space again, where people do normal things, the better. That's what Phyllis told him about the bathroom back at Downton, too, and of course she was right.

Neither the kitchen nor the Jenkinses' cottage overlook the drive, and the lights in the Stileses' respective bedroom windows are already out, too, so Thomas and Elsie set out side by side, carefully avoiding the shiny patches of ice on the road.

"You can't do this forever," Elsie says after a few minutes of silence. "See me home, I mean."

"I know. But I can do it till tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow, I'm going down to the builder's yard. There's something about the business with the roof that still needs discussing."

Elsie has learned a lot in just a day. "Please don't," she says at once. "I don't want people to talk. And I want no reason for him to get even more angry at – at anyone."

"But you do want him to leave you alone?" She nods. "Well, then."

For a while, there's nothing more to say. When they come out of the patch of woodland and see the lights of the village ahead of them, Elsie clears her throat.

"Mr Barrow?"

"Yes?"

"Who's the marvellous baker in your family?"

For a moment, he has no idea what she's talking about. Then he laughs. "Oh. No one. You mean the Christmas stuff? That's from Downton."

"Really?"

"Yes. Not every cook is a measly scrooge like Mrs Jenkins."

This makes them both laugh.

"Were the other people at Downton nice, too?" Elsie wants to know. "Or just the cook?"

Everyone except me, Thomas thinks but doesn't say.

"Downton Abbey is a special place," he says instead, treading very carefully indeed. "To me, at any rate. I was there for a long time."

He really should have seen Elsie's next question coming, but the blow still goes right under his guard.

"Then why did you leave?" she asks, innocent as a child. "If you were happy there?"

"Because even good things come to an end," Thomas replies and quickens his pace.


	5. Chapter 5

**Elsie**

Elsie expected Mr Barrow to come back from the builder's the next afternoon with a black eye at the very least, but he looks just fine. Satisfied, in fact.

"I think you're good to cycle home on your own again now," he says, taking off his hat and gloves in the downstairs passage. Mrs Jenkins has just gone out to the game larder, so they have a minute or two of privacy.

"You didn't tell his boss, did you?" Elsie asks anxiously.

"No. But I told him that I will, if he ever shows his face here again or if he hurts or pesters you anywhere else. You must tell me if he tries. You understand that, don't you? If you don't, our hold over him is gone."

Elsie nods, biting her lip. It'll be hard, she knows, but she can't pretend that she's not somehow glad, deep down, that she has someone to share this horrible secret with.

* * *

Secret no longer, alas, by the end of the week. Simon seems to be keeping his word as far as Mr Barrow's ban on contacting her is concerned, because he never goes near her now. But he's found another way to get back at her, and soon Elsie can't tell which is worse.

"Have you broken up with Simon?" Billy wants to know when they're in the kitchen on Sunday, baking some gingerbread of their own, even if Elsie can tell already that it'll be nowhere near as perfect as the one they make at Downton.

"Why?" she asks back, although of course her family will have noticed that Simon no longer walks her home from work.

"Because I met him yesterday at skittles behind the village hall, and I heard him say all these things about you."

"What things?"

Billy glances over his shoulder, but the door to the room where their mother is resting is closed, and Meg is out with friends. "Nasty things, really," he says. "That you'd - I dunno. That you'd taken advantage and then dumped him. And that a bloke should watch out, 'cause girls like that like to make it a habit."

Elsie gapes at her brother, struck dumb by the sheer viciousness of what she's hearing.

"Girls like that?" she manages to get out then. "Take advantage? Me, take advantage of _him?"_

Billy breaks off a piece of the sweet dough and stuffs it into his mouth. "Sorry, I'm just saying it like he said it. Doesn't mean it's true, does it?"

"But he's telling people that? Warning them off me, like I'm some - some -"

Elsie feels the blood rise into her cheeks. She doesn't want to say the word, but she thinks it, of course.

And she thinks it again when she kisses her mother goodbye before going back to work, and when she dresses Lady Stiles for dinner, and when she sits up late that night with Meg to help her with her maths homework. Doesn't she somehow taint them all by association, if that's how people talk about her behind her back now? Shouldn't they all recoil from her in disgust? She knows in her heart that she's not a - a Girl Like That, but if everyone believes it anyway, doesn't that kind of make it true?

Elsie cries herself to sleep that night, praying that Meg in the bed next to hers won't hear. Mr Barrow may have saved her reputation from being cudgelled to death a week ago, but now it's dying from some slow-acting poison instead, and in the end, the result will be just the same.

**Thomas**

The closer they get to Christmas, the more often does Thomas take out the card inviting him to Lady Edith's wedding, just to look at the Grantham coat of arms and the twirly print, and to feel the pride that fills his heart every time he reads the handwritten addition.

He couldn't place the handwriting at first, back when it came. It was neither Lord nor Lady Grantham's, nor Lady Edith's, but the words soon made the writer's identity clear.

_Dear Mr Barrow,_

they say, and even if it's a little pathetic, Thomas will never, never tire of reading that adjective in conjunction with his name now,

_I'm sorry I never said anything, but Edith only told me after you had left Downton that if it hadn't been for you, she might not have survived that fire, and I would never have met her. Please believe me when I say that I feel that I owe all my current and future happiness to you, and I will be forever grateful. We would both be so delighted if you would join us on our joyous day._

_Cordially yours,_

_Bertie Pelham_

And yes, the Marquess of Hexham apparently still signs letters with his nickname.

Thomas nearly wore Phyllis' first letter thin, carrying it around in his breast pocket for weeks. Then when things went downhill in October, Mr Bates' note telling him to stop moping and sort things out took its place, until it, too, nearly fell apart. The wedding invitation is too precious to suffer the same fate, so he compromises by propping it up against the inkwell on his desk in the pantry during the day and on his bedside table during the night.

He hasn't asked the Stileses yet whether he can go. He will have to, soon, but he can't bear the idea of them saying no. So he keeps putting it off and hopes that they won't come up with any sudden plans for a grand New Year's party of their own in the meantime. Unsurprisingly, they don't.

They have that Christmas visit to Castle Howard coming up, however, on Boxing Day. Which is fine with Thomas because it essentially means an extra half-day off for him while they're away, but the prospect has Elsie in an awful tizzy. Or why else is she walking around with red-rimmed eyes again these days?

He points this out to her one morning in the servants' hall when she looks in to ask him to put blue shoe polish on the grocery list.

"I still have those books, you know," he says while he puts the sterling cutlery, piece by piece, onto the tinfoil in the tub on the table in front of him. "I'm not sure how much use they are, I guess nothing beats looking over someone's shoulder who knows what they're doing. But you're welcome to give them a try."

"Oh, could I?" Elsie exclaims, relieved, and Thomas goes to fetch them from his pantry. He also makes a trip to the kitchen for salt and hot water. When he comes back, Elsie is already engrossed in Anna's old hairstyling manual. She looks up when he pours the steaming water from the jug into the tub, submerging the tarnished silverware, and sighs.

"I really want to get the thing with the tiara right this time. But I've no idea what they're talking about here."

She holds the book out to Thomas. He wipes his hands dry on his apron and takes it.

"'Using the finest comb, train a separate strand of hair of matching width through each opening of the gallery beneath the bottom band'? Search me. It'll probably make sense if you fetch it down and try it out, though."

"But I can't just -"

The bell rings at the back door. That'll be the post. If they're lucky -

"Where's Her Ladyship now?" Thomas asks quickly while he unties his apron.

"She said she'd be writing Christmas cards in the library."

"And the Jenkinses have gone to the butcher's to pick up the Christmas cuts. Run and get the thing. It may be now or never."

They are lucky. There are several letters for the Stileses, as well as two for Thomas himself. Normally, if there's anything from Downton, even the letter opener on his desk in the pantry seems too far away, and he's always in danger of ripping the covers open with his fingers there and then. But this time, he pockets his own mail for later and goes straight up to the library with the rest.

* * *

Lady Stiles is at the desk, reading glasses on her nose. She nods thank you and takes the post from the salver, then turns back to her writing.

Thomas hesitates, partly to give Elsie more time to fetch what she needs from Lady Stiles' dressing room, and partly because he may as well get it over with.

"What is it, Barrow?" Lady Stiles asks when he doesn't move.

Thomas clears his throat. "I've received a wedding invitation, Your Ladyship, and I would very much like to attend. It's on New Year's Eve."

Lady Stiles looks up. "Oh? Is it here in the area?"

"I'm afraid not. I'd have to leave after luncheon and wouldn't be back until the next morning." It is a lot to ask. The gloved hand behind his back, the one that isn't holding the now empty salver, twitches in spite of his best efforts to hold it still.

"Oh," Lady Stiles says again, not enthusiastic about the prospect. "Is it a relation?"

"No. But the bride is a very old friend." That's stretching the truth beyond breaking point, and - as Thomas realises almost too late - is also unlikely to be a recommendation in Lady Stiles' eyes. "She's the future Marchioness of Hexham," he adds quickly in as modest a tone as he can muster. If this doesn't do it, nothing will.

It really is his lucky day. Lady Stiles' stunned expression is almost comical.

It turns out that quite apart from not wanting to affront Lord and Lady Hexham, the Stileses will be away for dinner at the vicarage anyway on New Year's Eve, and Lady Stiles will allow Mrs Jenkins to carry up the afternoon tea in the butler's place. Just this once.

Thomas only just manages to close the door of the library behind him before he breaks into an idiotic grin.

**Elsie**

Elsie really wishes Mr Barrow hadn't come back downstairs so quickly. Not because she's ashamed of him seeing her with her hair down - he's seen her at her worst already, so what difference does it make now? - but because the tiara is putting up such a struggle. 

Elsie is fairly sure she's got the hang of the theory now, but threading single locks of hair through the narrow gaps near the bottom of the delicate contraption with one hand and holding it in place with the other while leaning over the small hand mirror is proving too much for a single pair of hands. 

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mr Barrow says when he's watched her for a moment from the doorway. He walks over and pulls out a chair. "Sit down, I'll hold it for you." 

Elsie is so startled that she obeys without thinking. Mr Barrow picks up the open book and looks down critically at what she's achieved so far, comparing her work to the illustrations in the manual. He purses his lips in a way that Elsie hopes means "not bad" rather than "oh, hopeless", then puts the book down, picks up the mirror and holds it in front of him so that it faces her. "Go on. We'll make a lady's maid of you yet." 

Elsie feels her cheeks go red and hot, but he's right, of course. It is much easier this way when she can see properly what she's doing.

"That's the thing though," she says while she works away with comb and pins. "If I'm honest, I don't even _want_ to be a lady's maid. It's just, my mother thinks I'd be mad to throw away what I have."

She fumbles, and the tiara is slipping again.

"May I?" Mr Barrow reaches out, straightens it carefully and holds it in place until Elsie has secured it. "I knew a man once whose mother wanted him to be a butler in a great house one day," he says then, "when all he wanted to be was a farmer, or even a groom. Be outside, work with animals, that kind of thing... but no. Not good enough."

Is he talking about himself? Somehow Elsie can't imagine Mr Barrow with dirt under his nails. "What happened to him?" she asks.

"He died in the war." 

"Oh. So it was all one, in the end." 

"Maybe he wouldn't have been so eager to run away to war if he'd have been allowed to be happier at home." 

Elsie pauses and glances up from her own reflection to Mr Barrow's face. "Was he a friend of yours?"

"No. No fault of his, though." A pause. "His widow is one of the bakers."

"Then she at least has found her calling." 

"For the moment, yes." 

Elsie is not sure how it happened that they can suddenly talk like this again, but she's missed it, oh, she's missed it more than she can say. 

"Don't you sometimes wonder," she muses, her eyes back on her task, "what you would do if you got the chance to start over? If you could choose what you really want to do?"

Mr Barrow chuckles, but in a rather mirthless way. "I wouldn't recommend indulging in that kind of thinking, Elsie. It tends to get you down."

"No, but really?"

"Well, if you insist... I guess I'd open a bookshop. Or perhaps a café. A place where people enjoy going, at any rate, and aren't hurried to move on."

"Why not both at once?" Elsie jokes. "A book café, where you can order a cuppa and it comes with a book of your choice, or the landlord's today's special, and you can hang around and read as long as you want."

"I don't think that exists."

"It doesn't exist until someone makes it happen," Elsie points out. And what a wonderful place that would be. 

"Fair enough. What about you, then?"

"Me?" Elsie doesn't need to ponder this for long. "I've always wanted to be a children's nurse. Or a nanny. I as good as raised my younger brother and sister, with my dad gone and my mum so poorly." 

"And that hasn't put you off?" 

"No, not at all. I loved singing them songs and reading to them and keeping them warm and fed and happy. Watch them grow, learn things, discover the world... They don't need me any more now, of course, but I really enjoyed it when they were little. I think I'd have been fine just being a maid in a house with children," she adds, unable to stop the sadness that seeps into her voice.

Mr Barrow nods, but says nothing. For a moment, he almost looks a little dewy-eyed himself, but it must be a trick of the light. 

Elsie puts in the last pin, then lowers her aching arms.

"Looks fine to me," Mr Barrow comments. "How does it feel?"

Elsie gets up from her seat, very slowly and carefully so as not to dislodge the tiara. She turns tentatively this way and that, but if she straightens her shoulders and holds her head high, it's perfectly balanced and happy to stay in place.

"Like a princess," Elsie whispers, amazed and elated. How is it even possible that she should feel this way when only an hour ago, she was just a floozy with a dirty secret? She smiles up at her unlikely assistant. "I - thank you. Thank you so much."

"Well, we couldn't let the darn thing win, could we?" He gives her one of those wry half-smiles again. Not for the first time, Elsie wishes she could set the real thing free. She suddenly feels that she owes it to him to at least try. 

They haven't moved, neither of them, and they're standing so close together that it just seems a natural thing to Elsie to reach up, put her hand on his shoulder and lean in to - 

"No. Please don't do that."

Her lips are inches away from his when his voice stops her. His tone is not harsh, and the hand that catches hers does not do so roughly. She can feel the leather of his glove brush against her fingers, dry and soft, as he guides her hand gently away. But the message could not be clearer.

"But you have a right," Elsie protests weakly. "And my name is mud anyway." 

"Nobody has a _right_ , Elsie, and your name isn't mud until you make it so yourself." 

"But it is." The words just burst out of her. "Just listen to what they're saying about me down in the village! I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb." Tears well up in Elsie's eyes, all the more so when she sees Mr Barrow's expression and realises that this is news to him. His face darkens instantly.

"Has he been talking?" he demands, and Elsie can only nod. "Well, he'll regret that." 

Elsie doesn't know whether to be thrilled or terrified by his confident tone of voice when he makes that promise. And neither does she know how to get back out of the deep, deep corner that she has painted herself into just now.

"And I think you should pack up your things and smuggle them back upstairs now," Mr Barrow plucks her right out of it, his voice crisp and businesslike again. "And let me recover the silver before there's nothing left."

He turns and goes to fetch some towels from the sideboard, spreads them out on the table next to the tub with the silver and starts retrieving the cutlery, shiny again, from the now tepid water. For a moment, there's something jarringly wrong in that picture, but then Elsie blinks and it's over before she can put her finger on it. At any rate, the spell is broken. The tiara comes off in no time at all, and the combs and pins disappear back into their bag.

"Mr Barrow?" Elsie asks in a small voice when she's ready to leave, her hair back in its usual plain bun. He looks up, towel in hand. Maybe she shouldn't push her luck, but it's the best explanation she can come up with, and she somehow needs to know if she's right. "Do you still think of her a lot?" 

Mr Barrow frowns as if he honestly doesn't know what she's talking about. "Think of who?"

"Of - well -" Was she wrong? "I - I was thinking that you left Downton because you wanted to get away from - from someone you -" She can't bring herself to say the words, they'd sound so crude and indelicate. 

"- someone I loved but couldn't have, you mean?"

Elsie nods, feeling guilty now that she made him say it in her stead. 

But Mr Barrow doesn't seem embarrassed. He just goes on wiping the silver dry. "No, it was nothing like that," he says. "And it's not something I can recommend either, pining after someone you can't have. It gets you down quicker than anything else, Elsie, trust me."

His eyes are back on his work, and Elsie is grateful for the chance to escape upstairs. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Thomas**

Thomas walks down to the builder's yard late in the afternoon of the next day, but unlike last time, he doesn't hang around outside smoking and waiting for the workers to clock off. This time, he goes right in and asks to speak to the master builder.

The scumbag had his chance. He's not getting another. 

Thomas is ready for everything from flat-out denial and accusations of self-interest to long-winded excuses, boys will be boys and that kind of thing. What he doesn't expect is to be preaching to the converted.

"I'm glad you've told me this, Mr Barrow," the man says after he's heard the story. "I wish I could say that I'm surprised, but I'm not. As a matter of fact, I had a similar complaint in the summer, when we were over in Howden for a couple of weeks." He looks down at his thick, calloused hands, folded on top of his desk. "I knew the lad had a bit of a reputation when I took him on, but I thought I'd give him a chance. You get a lot of these fatherless boys running a bit wild. But this is out of order. A romp in the garden shed is one thing. Dragging the girl through the muck afterwards is another. Besides, if he carries on like that, I may end up losing business."

"That's what I was concerned about, too," Thomas agrees, glad that he can make it a friendly piece of advice rather than a threat. "I'm sure there's nothing wrong with your men's work, but I'd certainly hesitate to ask them back, too, if I felt that our staff weren't safe in the same house with them."

The builder ponders this for a moment, his brows drawn together. "I'll tell you what," he says then. "Reed's a good, hard worker, and I'd hate to let him go just like that. But we'll put him on probation. We'll keep a close eye on him, the foreman and I, and I'll let him know in no uncertain terms that if I hear ever so much as a whisper like that again, he can consider himself sacked. Does that sound satisfactory to you?"

Thomas nods. It's good enough. Outright dismissal might have been more adequate, but nobody said it was a just world. Elsie will think that he's achieved nothing at all, of course. Just because Reed can't misbehave in the future doesn't mean that her good name is restored. But then, she doesn't know that the story is not over just yet. 

* * *

Christmas Eve is finally here. Elsie has done her best with a few vases of holly and evergreens in the hall and the other upstairs rooms. Mrs Jenkins is run off her feet in the kitchen producing what tradition requires on this day. Thomas sits in his pantry looking at his Christmas cards. He hasn't put them up on the mantel or the desk because he doesn't want to be ostentatious, but also because... there's hardly room for them all. 

There's one from George, who has drawn a pile of colourful presents this time and, according to the legend that Lady Mary has added at the bottom, wishes that Mr Barrow will get at least twice as many for Christmas. 

There are _two_ cards from Sybbie, who - as Tom Branson explains on the back of the second one - was so proud of her first one that she didn't want to wait until next year to send another. And right she is, because her letters are coming along really well, almost legible sometimes.

Lady Edith reiterates her hopes that he will be able to come to her wedding. Someone seems to have crossed the words out again violently afterwards, but that's just Marigold "signing" what bears no resemblance at all to her name all across the text.

Andy still swaps letters around sometimes, but not much. Mrs Patmore's card has a smell of mint sauce to it. Daisy's has so much glitter on the picture in front that the stuff got everywhere when he first took it out. What was she thinking, that the Stileses would be amused to be served their Christmas tea by a sparkling butler? Dr Clarkson sends the season's greetings - they smell of pipe smoke - and so does Lady Merton - and wasn't that glorious news! - and even - will wonders never cease - the Dowager Countess. 

And it's the same refrain all over again, and again. See you soon. Hope you can make it. Looking forward to seeing you again. Downton's not the same without you.

The front door bell recalls him to reality, so Thomas puts the cards away and goes to answer it.

Elsie happens to be in the hall dusting when he gets there, which is a strange time of day for her to be doing this, but Thomas thinks nothing of it. At the door, in the afternoon light fading in the deep blue sky, is a gaggle of young people from the village in their Sunday best.

"Good afternoon, sir," says Elsie's sister Meg with a bob. "We're carol singers, and we're here to wish Sir Mark and Lady Stiles a very happy Christmas." 

Lady Stiles is just as surprised as Thomas was when she hears this, but seeing as it would be uncharitable to send the children away now they're here, she allows them into the hall. The Stileses sit down in the never-used loveseat by the fireplace, and the youngsters line up and launch into "O Little Town of Bethlehem".

They have decent voices, and Thomas finds it an unexpected pleasure to stand and listen to them fill the usually so quiet place with peace on earth and good will to men. Elsie, next to him, has put her duster but not herself out of sight, and she looks happier than she has done in a good while, too.

The Sussex Carol is next, and it's not a brilliant idea because most of the boys' voices have barely broken yet, and this one really needs more... substance.

Before he knows it, Thomas is singing quietly along, barely moving his lips at first. But nobody gives him funny looks and nobody protests, so he figures that he's allowed, and soon he's sweeping Elsie along as well. A discreet glance at the Stileses tells him this is still on the safe side of damnable indulgence. Sir Mark is even thrumming his bony fingers on his knee in time with the music.

This will be his Christmas, Thomas decides as their little chorus rises up in triumph to the stuccoed ceiling with their final offering, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, Glory to the Newborn King. This is it. It can't be where he wants to be, and it can't be with whom he wants to be, but it's good enough, he doesn't need more. 

It's a good thing that he's expected to be busy again almost immediately after the last chord has died away. The Stileses, showing unheard-of human emotion, want each of the young singers to have sixpence for their efforts, and a bite of whatever Mrs Jenkins last pulled out of her ovens, and Thomas and Elsie are off down the back stairs together.

"I knew from church that you like to sing," Elsie says when the hall door swings shut behind them.

"I do," he agrees. "I just don't often get the chance."

It's honestly only then that Thomas realises that this unexpected visit from the outside world wasn't a coincidence. Quite the contrary. Good Lord, the girl is starting to impress him. 

Elsie glances up at him and smiles. "I'm glad you got a chance today, then. I didn't know what else to get you for Christmas."

**Elsie**

Elsie can't believe she really managed to pull the carol thing off without making the Stileses or Mrs Jenkins - or most importantly of all, Mr. Barrow himself - suspicious. She has never been a plotter, and she had such a sleepless night ahead of Christmas Eve, but it was a hundred times worth it. His face, when she told him on the stairs, was priceless. And she also finds it much easier now to let him go back up to the house alone after church on Christmas morning, while she gets to go home and celebrate with her family.

"You should have asked him to come, if it's so important to you," her mother says while Meg carries in the roast and Billy fills the glasses. 

"I don't think the Stileses would agree to serve themselves on Christmas of all days," Elsie objects at once. "And really, mum, what would the neighbours say?" 

"They'd say that the maid could do worse than marry the butler," Meg quips and dances out of reach when Elsie waves a napkin at her in a mock threat.

"Away with you!" 

"Hey! You owe me!" 

Elsie knows she's lucky that her mother goes out so little, and that Meg and her friends are too young and innocent to pay attention to the whispering that's going on behind her back. Both Meg and her mother are still oblivious of the disaster that unfolded on that awful day of the dance at the village hall. And Billy, fine fellow that he is, has kept mum all this time. He actually suffers, too, but there's only one accepted way among the young men of the village to defend their sisters' honour against this kind of slander, and Billy is only sixteen and light and small for his age and just no match for Simon Reed's heavy fists. So Elsie bears the good-natured teasing and prays silently that the more malicious rumours won't come to her mother's ears for a while yet. It's a miracle they haven't reached the Stileses yet, either.

"All set for tomorrow?" Billy asks her when they're seated around the table and have said grace and a prayer for their father.

"I think so." 

"Mrs Evans from the butcher's was a maid at Castle Howard before she married, did you know?" her mother says. "She always says what a beautiful place it is." 

Elsie doubts she'll see more of it than the servants' hall when she goes there tomorrow, but she's willing to take Mrs Evans' word for it. She knows well enough that Lady Stiles is only taking her along to the Howards' Christmas do so she'll be on hand to take the blame if there's another mishap with Her Ladyship's clothes or hair, not to enjoy looking at a fairytale palace. But she's determined not to slip up this time. And who knows, maybe one or the other of the real lady's maids there will even be willing to share a few secrets of their trade. 

* * *

That last idea turns out to be a pipe dream. Elsie feels terrible sitting at the long, crowded table in the servants' hall at Castle Howard the next evening, like an impostor who has no right to be there, in spite of her prim black dress and the extra effort she's made today to tame her hair. The fact that they call her Miss Stiles doesn't help her to feel more at ease, either. Most of the other women's talk is about who's getting married to whom upstairs – names that mean nothing to Elsie - and slagging off those of the guests that have arrived without any maid at all, like that Lady Merton, whose first husband was a _doctor_ , would you believe? Nobody talks to Elsie except to ask her to pass the potatoes, and she keeps her mouth shut.

Further up towards the head of the table, things seem a bit quieter and also a good deal less catty. They sit according to the rank of their employers, of course, and it seems that the countesses' and baronesses' maids are a more staid lot than those of the lower aristocracy. There is one in particular who gives Elsie a friendly look from the distance now and again. She has kind, warm eyes the colour of dark chocolate.

Elsie doesn't feel brave enough to join one of the chattering groups after dinner, so she withdraws into a corner and takes out her new book instead. She unwrapped it in a quiet moment yesterday, but she hasn't had time yet to start on it properly.

_Dear Elsie,_

Mr Barrow wrote in the note that came with it, 

_I've never heard of this author before – Italian, I think? - and it looks quite scientific, too, but I saw this in the bookshop in York the other day and thought of you. If you don't enjoy it, throw it out and pick a novel instead._

_Merry Christmas_

_Th. B._

She's about to open the book when she senses someone standing at her shoulder. It's the lady's maid with the friendly brown eyes. 

"Miss Stiles?" she says. "May I sit down for a moment?"

"Yes, of course." Elsie puts the book down while the other woman pulls up a chair.

"What is it you're reading?" she asks, eyeing the cover. 

"Oh, a book I got for Christmas," Elsie explains. "I've barely started, and I'm not sure how much of it I'll even understand. It's by an Italian doctor – a woman doctor - about the education of young children. It's just, I'd love to learn more about that."

The other maid raises her dark eyebrows, looking impressed. "Who gave this to you? Your parents?"

"No, a – a friend. A friend I work with." 

The woman smiles. "Stiles Court is not a very big establishment, is it?"

"No, that's true. Just the butler, the cook, and me." 

"And I don't suppose your cook is interested in early education?" 

Elsie blushes, but says nothing. 

"You get along well, then?" the woman asks. "The butler and you?"

"Not in that sense," Elsie hastens to clarify, her face burning. "He's just – really nice to talk to. When we get the chance, that is."

"I'm very happy to hear that," the other maid says and smiles again.

The Howards' housekeeper appears behind them. "Miss Grantham? The Earl and Countess are ready to leave."

"Thank you, I'm coming." The woman rises from her chair. For a moment, it seems as if she's about to say something more to Elsie, but then she doesn't, just gives her a pleasant nod and walks away.

By the time Elsie realises who she has been talking to, the maid from Downton is gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who's reading this, I wish you all a bright, warm and cosy Christmas - even and especially if it can't be where you want to be and with whom you want to be, either. This story will continue, in real time, on Boxing Day. In the meantime, take care of yourselves and of those around you, stay healthy and safe, and I hope to see you all again on the other side of Christmas for the rest of the story. Love, Jolie


	7. Chapter 7

**Thomas**

Thomas puts on his second best suit when he gets ready to go down to the pub again on Boxing Day night. The best needs to be saved for Lady Edith's wedding in a few days' time. Hopefully he'll still be going. There was probably never a way around what's going to happen tonight, but he wishes the timing was better.

It's his first outing of this kind in several weeks, but he's greeted by the regulars in the same easy, familiar manner as always. Or does the landlord look a little grumpier, a little more unwilling than usual when Thomas places his order at the bar? It's hard to say. The man is never exactly the soul of cheerfulness. 

"Here he comes," the greengrocer grins when Thomas joins the others with his pint. "The Avenger of Stiles Court." The others chuckle, but in a good-natured way.

"Ah, it were time for a shot across the bows," the verger says, shaking his head.

"Served young Reed right," mutters the postmaster. "Should've been sacked outta hand."

"Is that what people think, then?" Thomas asks, aiming for a conversational tone, and takes a sip of his ale. He's not going to finish it, he wants to keep his wits about him. But it's a necessary cover.

"Not all of 'em," the postmaster admits. "I'd say you've managed to split the village right down the middle."

"There's some that think the girl must've led him on," the greengrocer elaborates. "And then there's some that say even if not, it's no business of some stuck-up newcomer to stop the local lads having a bit of fun when they can. Their words, not mine," he adds and raises his glass to Thomas in a mock toast.

Thomas toasts him back. "Should I be worried, d'you think?"

"Nah." The verger taps out his pipe, tamps it again and relights it. "I'll wager most of 'em would be on your side, and the girl's, if they stopped to really think about it. They just don't know who to believe right now."

"Reed'll be furious, though," the postmaster points out. "Old Reed had a darn short temper, too. Punch first, ask later. His boy's no better."

"Are you saying I'd better take an escort when I go back home tonight?" Thomas suggests, and the other three laugh heartily. 

"Oh come, Mr Barrow. We're not savages round here," the greengrocer wheezes. "If the boy knows what's good for 'im, he'll keep his big head down and his mouth shut until the whole thing's blown over."

"Well, I hope you're right," Thomas lies, because of course he hopes for the exact opposite, but they don't need to know that.

The verger takes out his pack of cards then, and that concludes the matter. Thomas stays long enough to make sure that he's been seen and arrangements have been made behind the scenes, although he doesn't imagine that they'll be very sophisticated. It's after eleven when he says goodnight and steps out into the darkness. 

He halts under the last street lamp by the level crossing to light another cigarette, then he sets out through the woodlands towards the house, slowly but steadily uphill. He would have preferred to have some witnesses nearby, for added credibility and also - if he's honest - to maybe intervene if things should spin out of control. But of course this lonely stretch of road lends itself much better to an ambush than the narrow lanes of the village.

They step out into the road ahead of him about halfway to the house. They. There are three of them. Thomas tries to see it as a compliment. 

He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and keeps walking until they're barely four feet apart. His welcoming committee hasn't moved. In the dark, Thomas can't tell who the others are, if he's ever met them before. Simon Reed is in the middle, hands deep in his pockets. For a moment, nobody says a word. 

"Are we standing here all night then?" Thomas asks and takes another drag.

Reed takes a step forward. When will short men learn that keeping a distance gives them a much better angle on a tall opponent?

"You know why I'm here," the boy snarls up at him. "You nearly lost me my job!"

Thomas takes his time to exhale a long plume. There's nothing like a faceful of smoke to put someone in their place. "Of course. What did you expect, a promotion?"

The boy's ruddy face radiates anger. It won't be long now. There will have to be blood, of course - nothing like blood to get people's attention - but Thomas has always been rather proud of his healthy, even teeth. He hopes he gets to keep those, although with three against one, he may not get much of a say in the matter.

"You - you -" Reed hisses, getting incoherent already, good, "you think you're such a fine prig, you can come 'ere and tell a bloke what he can and can't do?"

"The girl told you that in plain English, Simon, it's not my fault if you don't listen."

That's all it takes. Two beefy hands come up and grab Thomas by the lapels of his coat, and a vicious headbutt from the shorter man makes his teeth slice the inside of his lower lip open. Thomas can't help staggering backwards from the force of the blow, right into the arms of one of Reed's pals, who twists his arm behind his back with almost insulting ease. The third man moves in to take hold of the other. Survival instinct, not usually Thomas' forte, kicks in with full force. His heartbeat picks up speed at a frightening rate, and he doesn't have to pretend to try and get away, he _wants_ to get away now, but it's too late already, he can't break their iron grip. His struggle makes them laugh.

A hand comes down on the back of Thomas' head like a claw, forcing him to double over. A knee slams into the pit of his stomach and makes him choke out a cough, and another, and another. It's not true that it hurts less when you know it's coming. Thomas learned that on a long, cold night out in the trenches years ago, and some things just never change. He can feel blood trickle down his chin, slick and warm, while he gasps for air.

They're not an imaginative lot, but they've choreographed their little show effectively. The next few blows to Thomas' midriff are enough to knock all the remaining breath out of him, and his legs just fold. He goes down on his knees in the mud, and if it wasn't for the two thugs on either side of him, his arms numb in their grasp, he'd be flat on his face already.

"Look at you," Reed jeers, and his hand is in Thomas' hair again, but this time to tilt his head back and expose his battered face to what little light there is. "Not so spit-and-polish any more now." Reed grimaces in disgust. "Ugh. Spit, yes. Polish, no."

More laughter. Reed's head comes up against Thomas' face again with alarming force, and this time the impact sends a spray of blood spurting from Thomas' nose. The metallic tang at the back of his throat makes him retch. Reed pulls back, takes another swing and whacks his elbow into the back of Thomas' bowed head, and Thomas sees the proverbial stars and then nothing at all any more.

* * *

His hearing reports back for duty faster than his sight. The rush of his blood in his ears is like the thrum of an engine, getting continuously louder. Then bright stabs of light slice painfully through the darkness before his closed eyelids. The noise becomes a roar, but then suddenly ceases completely. In the unexpected silence, small details start making sense. The click of a car door. Footsteps on the ground. A hand on his shoulder turning him over.

"God Almighty," a man's voice says, aghast, and Thomas takes an age and a half to recognise it as that of Mr Jenkins.

He isn't sure how much time passes after that, and how they even get him into the car - he can't imagine walking, not even in theory - but there he finally is at the front door of Stiles Court, propped up on either side by Mr Jenkins and the village constable, an aching arm around each of their shoulders. The door stands open and the lights are on in the hall.

"I took the keys from your pocket to open up, Mr Barrow," Mr Jenkins says apologetically, as if this were the time to stand on hierarchy. "They're on the table by the door. Your watch and wallet, too."

Thomas would laugh, if he could remember how to do it. There was a possibility that Reed and his friends would complicate things by taking his valuables to make their attack look like a common mugging, but it seems he's credited them with too much wit.

The scene Thomas drags himself into could not have been more perfect for his purposes if they had rehearsed it beforehand. The hall is crowded enough to make sure that the story will be everywhere tomorrow morning. Apart from Jenkins and the policeman, there's an agitated Sir Mark, who seems to be taking the assault on his butler extremely personally; a white-faced but silent Lady Stiles, minus her fur coat but still in her tiara; Mrs Jenkins hovering anxiously; and of course Elsie herself in her best black dress, eyes wide with horror, and no surprise. The electric light leaves nothing to the imagination.

It also makes Thomas' head hurt so badly that it wants to burst. Bright little sparks start dancing behind his eyes again, and he clenches his jaw against a wave of nausea that washes up out of nowhere and makes the room spin around him.

"Sit him down here," Mrs Jenkins urges them, guiding the men to an armchair nearby. "The doctor will be here within the hour."

"And I want a full investigation as soon as may be," Sir Mark demands of the poor harassed constable.

"Of course, sir," the man replies. "Did you recognise any of them, Mr Barrow, by any chance?"

"No." Thomas' sticky, swollen lips can barely form the word, but this matters. "No idea. Happened too quick."

They lower him into the armchair, a sorry heap of aching limbs and laboured breathing, but the spinning doesn't stop. He just wants to put his head down and rest for a century.

"I beg your pardon, constable," says Elsie's voice somewhere above him. "But I think I know who it was. I think I - I saw him in the headlights, running away."

Oh, please not. The girl, in her sweet innocence, is not going to ruin this now. Not when he's gone to so much trouble for the little fool already.

"No you didn't." Thomas raises his heavy head, searching for her eyes, but her face is a blur, so all he can do is hope fervently that she'll have wits enough to follow his lead even if she doesn't understand why. "You can't have seen. Too dark." He takes another shuddering breath, and his voice descends into a whisper. "Too far - " 

Has she even heard him? He doesn't know. Darkness is closing in again fast, and the last thing Thomas does know is that he pitches out of the chair, and there's vomit all over the Axminster.

**Elsie**

Elsie, together with Mrs Jenkins, has carried up hot water and fresh towels, lit the gas and turned down the covers on Mr Barrow's bed by the time the men arrive with their burden. It's good to have something to occupy her, or else she'd just be sobbing.

It's a slog getting Mr Barrow out of his overcoat and his jacket, and after that he just collapses on his bed, too done in to help with the rest.

"Just leave it," he protests weakly in that horrible thick voice when Mrs Jenkins loosens his tie and Elsie starts unbuttoning his waistcoat. 

"With all due respect, Mr Barrow, that shirt needs to soak if the blood's ever supposed to come out," Mrs Jenkins tells him in that firm type of voice that people reserve for little children and idiots. She kindly doesn't mention the vomit. "Now hold still and let us get on."

Elsie feels a light touch on her shoulder. It's the constable. 

"Miss? I'm going back to the station now to write the report. D'you want a lift home?" 

Elsie doesn't need to even think about it. "No, thank you, sir, I think I'll be staying. But if you could stop by my mother's and tell her so, that would be kind."

The man nods, and Elsie turns back to the bed. For some reason, Mr Barrow is still putting up a struggle against their efforts to make him more comfortable. And suddenly Elsie realises why. 

"Mrs Jenkins?" she says quickly. "I think the jacket needs a soak, too. Why don't you go and get a tub ready, and come back and fetch the rest later?"

To Elsie's immense relief, Mrs Jenkins is only too happy to abandon their thankless task in favour of another. "Well, maybe you can talk some sense into him," she says, rising from the bedside with a frustrated glance at their unwilling patient. "I give up." 

Elsie waits for her to leave, carrying off the coat and jacket. Then she kneels down by the bed.

"Mr Barrow?" she says quietly. When there's no reaction, she puts her hand on his arm. "Thomas?"

That got through. He turns his pale face towards her on the pillow. The blood around his mouth and nose is drying into brownish crusts, and she hopes he'll let her take care of that later, but now they have to make the best of Mrs Jenkins' absence. Who knows how long it will last. Elsie takes a deep breath, and prays that she's got this right. "You heard Mrs Jenkins, you need to get out of that shirt. Please let me help. I think I know what it is that you don't want us to see. I won't tell anyone, I swear." 

Bloodshot eyes focus on her with an effort, and she thinks she sees a nod. At any rate, he surrenders. The cuffs of his shirt come undone without resistance now, and Elsie learns that she was right. As she suspected, the scars are on both wrists, mirror images of each other, red welts bordered by the tell-tale pricks of a doctor's needle. They're surprisingly fresh, too, now that she sees them up close and clearly, not a year old, maybe only a few months. And they're a hundred times worse to look at than his bloody face and soiled clothes.

He's watching her, maybe waiting for her to recoil in shock or disgust, but all she feels is sadness.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers. And she is, sorry for everything that ever made him hurt, and sorry for everything that's making him hurt now, because that is _her_ fault, and she can barely stand to see him suffer for her mistakes on top of everything else.

"You know - ?" he rasps, his voice hoarse with the effort of speaking. She nods. "How?" 

"I'll tell you that tomorrow." She's not ready for her heart to break into yet more pieces today, and besides, there's work to do. "But now we've got to get you into bed for real. Come on." 

* * *

By the time Mrs Jenkins returns to Mr Barrow's room with the doctor in tow, Elsie has their patient down to his undershirt and trousers and the covers pulled up to his chin. The rest, she hopes, the doctor will sort out somehow. 

She has also washed his face with a warm cloth and even combed the dirt out of his hair, which she was a little surprised he let her do, but she suspects that he was half asleep already at the time and barely noticed. 

The doctor calls the two women back in after a short examination and rattles off instructions for the patient's care in his usual mildly scatterbrained manner while he puts his stethoscope back in his bag. 

"Mr Barrow has a full-blown concussion," he says. "If the symptoms worsen – confusion, excessive drowsiness, or a seizure, that kind of thing – call me again. Other than that, there's nothing a good rest shouldn't cure." He glances at the man in the bed. "I know that's mostly wishful thinking in your trade, Mr Barrow, but please try and take it easy for a few days." Not getting and maybe not expecting a response, he turns back to the women. "There are no broken bones, as far as I can tell. But going by the extent of the haematoma, internal bleeding is something to watch out for. Any sudden increase in heartrate or breathing rate, or any sudden decline of the mental faculties, and he's a case for an ambulance. Please don't hesitate." 

"Does that mean we should sit with him through the night?" Mrs Jenkins asks, and Elsie has rarely wished for someone to say yes more urgently. 

They decide to split what remains of the night into two shifts, of which Elsie takes the first. Mrs Jenkins even brings her tea under a cosy and a thick woollen cardigan before she goes to a short rest in her own home. 

"You're shaking us up all right, Mr Barrow," she says to their patient by way of goodnight, and for a moment, it sounds almost affectionate, but that's probably just in Elsie's head.

**Thomas**

When Thomas wakes, the light in his room is low and someone is sitting huddled in a chair by his bedside with her stockinged feet up on the mattress and tucked under the edge of his duvet to keep them warm. She's blurry around the edges, but it is a woman in a black dress. It's neither Phyllis nor Anna nor Mrs Hughes, though. Besides, Mrs Hughes would never do the thing with the feet. Phyllis would. Anna, possibly. 

The tiniest movement of his head results in an instant burst of pain, and as usual, the pain reawakens the memories. 

"Elsie?" he whispers, because of course it's her, how could he forget?

She straightens up with a start, blinking rapidly. "What? Oh, I'm sorry. I must have been asleep." She blushes and quickly takes her feet down. "How are you feeling?" 

"Great. If I don't move." His head keeps throbbing, but his vision slowly clears. Talking works as long as he breathes very shallowly.

"Well, you mustn't move. You'll be black and blue in the morning, and the doctor said you've got a concussion."

"What doctor?" 

"Can't you remember?" 

"Not everything." 

Thomas does know what happened on the way back from the pub. He meant it to happen, after all. But everything after that is a muddle of too bright light and a sudden bout of panic that he doesn't recall the reason for, later replaced by soothing, low voices, a soft hand brushing gently across his smarting face and yes, the dry touch of a stethoscope on his chest and back.

He brings his left hand up to feel his lip, which seems twice its usual size. Then he realises that he's in his undershirt, and his arm is bare from the elbow down. The glove is gone, too. The panic returns.

"It's fine," Elsie says quickly. "I helped you out of your shirt when nobody else could see. And your glove had got dirty, and the doctor wanted to check your hand was all right, so he took it off. Have you got another? I'll get it for you, if you want." 

"No, never mind." But he tucks his hand back under the covers all the same. The light from the single gas lamp makes the puckered scar tissue stand out in sharp relief, the dent in the middle almost like a real dark hole, and he doesn't want her to have to look at that. "S'not a secret, that," he mutters. "Just ugly."

"You're not ugly, Mr Barrow."

"My hand is."

"I don't care about your hand."

Does she care about his wrists? How did she even know that there was something both secret _and_ ugly hidden under his shirt cuffs, too?

"Elsie?"

"Yes?" 

"How -" 

"Pure accident. The other day, after you'd helped me try on the tiara, you pulled up your sleeve a bit too far when you took the silver back out of the tub. I wasn't even sure at first what I'd seen, but, well, I am now."

"But how could you tell what it means?" Oh. He thinks he may have the answer to that already. "No, let me guess. George Miller?"

Elsie's eyes grow wide. "But I've never-" 

"- said anything, no. I saw the stone in the churchyard. I've got eyes in my head, too, you know." He pauses to catch his breath. "Cousin of yours?"

"My uncle," Elsie explains. "He was in the war, like my dad, but then –" 

"No, don't tell me. Not now, at any rate."

Because Thomas can picture the whole story in his head as clearly already as if he'd been told in a thousand words. The war, shell shock, maybe unemployment, then the loss of wife and child – enough to bring any man to his knees. 

"I just wanted to say, I kind of knew the doctors were wrong," Elsie says quietly. "He didn't belong in the asylum. He wasn't crazy. He was just sad."

The girl has a way of getting under his skin that really shouldn't be allowed.

"Well, I'm glad if you think I don't belong in an asylum, either," Thomas says and tries to smile. It hurts.

"As a matter of fact, you might," she replies, only half in jest. "After tonight. Why didn't you want me to tell the police who did it, when it's as plain as day?"

"The police were here?"

"Our constable, yes. Sir Mark insisted. Who do you think carried you up to bed?" 

Good point. "But they got away?"

"Clean away. There was nobody there when we found you. All the police know is that it wasn't a robbery, because they took nothing of value."

"Oh, nice."

"I didn't mean -"

"No, I know." Thomas shifts in search of a more comfortable position, in vain.

Elsie, reading his next thought before it even occurs to him, fills a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table, then helps him raise his head, with her arm under the pillow, so he can drink.

"Well, here's to victory," he says and takes a few careful sips.

Elsie nearly drops the glass. "What?"

Honestly, if even his dumb aching head can make sense of this, then why can't she? "Elsie, use your brain. This is the last chapter of the story, and it means we've won."

"What do you mean, we've won? He beat you bloody!" ´

"Yes, silly, and that's an admission of guilt! Don't you see? If he'd been innocent, he'd have spoken up, pleaded with his boss. Not accepted the judgment and then lurked in the woods to get back at me in secret." He takes another sip. He's parched, and having to make a speech about something that should be ruddy obvious isn't helping. "So anyone in the village who was still in two minds yesterday whether to believe him or you will be on your side now." Thomas pushes the glass back into Elsie's hand and lets his head sink back onto the pillow. "We set him a trap and he walked right into it. Of course we've won."

"You – you – you _let him_ do this to you just to get people on my side?"

"Of course. Now don't go and wreck it by getting him arrested. That would sway public opinion back in favour of the poor little boy quicker than anything else."

"I can't believe you did this for me," Elsie protests, her tone almost accusatory. "You could have –"

"- died? Well, better for a proper reason than just 'cause you don't see the point of living, don't you think?"

Oh, congratulations. Now he's made her cry. Three o'clock in the morning is really not his time, and the knock on the head isn't making him a pleasant person to be around, either. Thomas feels for the edge of his duvet with his good hand and lifts it a few inches. 

"Get them back in," he says. "If you have to be sad, you can at least be sad with warm feet. And now for God's sake let me go back to sleep."

Thomas nearly _is_ asleep by the time Elsie finally finds her voice again. 

"Mr Barrow?" 

"Mmh?"

"I think I met either P. Baxter or A. M. Smith at Castle Howard yesterday."

Thomas opens one eye again. "P. Baxter, then. A. M. Smith must be the size of a whale right now. Won't be gallivanting around the county until well after the birth."

Can he put a smile on her face? Yes, he can. Good. 

"That's lovely. I hope she's well." 

"Miss Baxter say anything?" 

"We didn't have much time, but she said she's glad we're friends." 

"Mmh. She would be."

Silence.

"Mr Barrow? Can I really put my feet back in?"

"Be my guest."

He drifts off so quickly that he barely even feels Elsie's small cold feet sneak gently back into the warm hollow between the mattress and the back of his knees.


	8. Chapter 8

**Elsie**

Elsie can't believe her eyes when she carries up breakfast on a tray for Mr Barrow at seven and finds him sitting on the side of his bed, shaved and dressed for work except for the shoes, which he seems to have trouble putting on because it requires bending down. She can barely imagine how he managed the rest.

"Are you sure you're not bleeding internally now?" she asks from the doorway when he looks up and sees her standing there. "Because the doctor said last night to watch out for a sudden inexplicable decline of the mental faculties, and that's just what I'm seeing. Are you out of your _mind?"_

"No, I'm being prescient."

"What do you mean?" 

"That I can't very well ask for a day off on New Year's Eve if I lounge around in bed all the days in between, too, can I? What would that look like?"

"What's on New Year's Eve?"

"A wedding."

"At Downton?"

Mr Barrow nods, takes a deep breath and holds it while he ties his shoelaces, then lets it out again as he straightens up. Elsie notices how he steadies himself against the mattress with his hands. Still dizzy then, too.

Well, it is mad, but he's made enough sacrifices for her already. She can't expect him to wave goodbye to a day of happiness among his old friends on top of everything else, too. 

"I'll help," she says at once, because if there's no way around it, she at least wants to do her bit. "I'll do all the lifting and carrying, the trays, the wine, I'll lay the table, take in the post, the deliveries… Anything I can do behind the scenes, where they won't know it's me. You'll still have enough left to do that the doctor will faint if he hears about it. And we'll just drop everything that isn't urgent and catch up on it later, when you're better. And you'll take breaks. Lots of breaks. Then you'll have an actual chance of still being alive by the time the wedding rolls around. Deal?"

"Do I get a choice?"

"No, you don't, actually. You never asked my permission when you made yourself my guardian angel, either."

He shrugs, wry half-smile back in place - a swollen version, but recognisable again. Then he gets up and takes the breakfast tray from her. Elsie lets go of it a little reluctantly, and not just because he moves so stiffly.

"Don't you want to come down to the servants' hall, now that you're up anyway?" she suggests. "Mrs Jenkins has made breakfast for me, too."

"No, of course not." The disappointment must show on her face, because he sighs and shakes his head. "Elsie, last night was an emergency, when the normal rules don't apply. But it's changed nothing here in the house, make no mistake."

"I'm not going back there." Elsie's voice shakes, but only a little. "I'm not going back to notes on your desk, and nods from the distance, and looking over my shoulder every time we talk. Not now. Not ever."

It hadn't even occurred to her yet that they might have to, and the idea is unbearable. But all this fierce declaration earns her is a very expressive eyeroll.

"Elsie, please, I just don't want either of us to lose our jobs. Is that so hard to understand?"

Elsie juts out her chin defiantly. "If it's me, I don't care."

"Yes, you do. And now get back downstairs and let me have this cold tea and toast in peace before Sir Mark has to dress himself."

* * *

Elsie's mother opens the door to her when she finally gets back home in the evening. She's run off her feet, because she's kept her promise and done half a butler's day's work in addition to her own, and she wants nothing more now than to slip back into the familiar, uncomplicated comfort of her home. It's only when she puts her bike away for the night that she remembers just how much explaining she'll have to do before she can. 

But her mother wants no explanations. "Oh, my girl," is all she says and pulls Elsie into her arms before she's even taken off her hat and coat. "My poor girl, the talk of the town! And you never said a word!"

"Billy knew," Elsie mutters into her mother's shoulder. "But I didn't want him to blab. Who told you?" 

"Mrs Evans. She came over first thing in the morning, before opening the shop." 

"To gossip?" 

"No, to apologise. Said she didn't understand how she could ever have believed what that nasty brute was saying about you. And she wasn't the only one. The knocker's been going all day. Everyone's so shocked." She releases Elsie from her embrace, but keeps a hold of her hand. "How is he?" she asks, deeply concerned.

Elsie shakes her head. "How do you think?"

There's nothing more to say, except that Elsie can't see how she'll ever repay that debt. 

* * *

"Have you thought any more about that idea you had a while back?" her mother asks Elsie when they're gathered around the dinner table a little later and Meg carries in the pie she's made from the Christmas leftovers. "Going on a course, I mean, to York or somewhere?" 

"You called that a silly dream, mum." 

"Back then, yes. But I thought, now, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to –"

"- get away for a bit? You mean, whatever nice things people are saying now, mud sticks?" 

Her mother sighs. "I'm not sending you away, please don't get me wrong. I just thought a change of scenery might do you good. New faces. New things to do." 

"The Stileses won't take me back. They'll be glad to see the back of me, after this." 

"Then you'll find somewhere else."

"Who's going to pay?" 

"I am. You know how old Mrs Neame had a stroke before Christmas? She's not going to do any more sewing for people now, so I thought I'd ask her if I could take over a bit of that."

"Are you well enough?" 

Elsie's mother reaches out across the table and puts her warm, red hand over her daughter's. "I've never been able to take care of you and Billy and Meg the way I'd have liked to," she says earnestly. "It's about time you let me. You know I'm better than I've been in years."

Elsie is touched, and there's definitely something appealing in the prospect of just going away and starting over, even if it would mean no longer cycling home for dinner every night, and still doing a job without her heart truly in it. But then she thinks of Mr Barrow, alone in that big silent house, stuck in the Stileses' dreary, never changing routine for God know how many more years, wearing himself out for nothing until a day comes at last when he – like Uncle George – will just not see the point any more again.

"That's sweet of you, mum," Elsie says aloud. "And it sounds tempting. But I don't think I'm ready just yet." 

**Thomas**

His train is late when it pulls into York on New Year’s Eve, and Thomas is still in no state to even try running, so he misses his connection and ends up sidling into the Church of St. Michael and All Saints in Downton village almost at the last minute. He nods a quick hello to Andy and Daisy and is glad to find Anna still up and active, too, and the seat next to her still free.  
  
He's checked his reflection carefully in the mirror before leaving Stiles Court, and he's sure there's nothing left to alarm anyone, as long as he can remember not to make a wrong move. There's nothing to be done about the dark circles under his eyes, but Elsie has worked miracles brushing out his coat, Mrs Jenkins has let him have enough chips of ice from her precious ice box to bring down the swelling around his lips, and the lump on the back of his head disappears conveniently under his hair.  
  
Accordingly, Anna smiles when he takes his seat next to her. He can't supress a sigh as he folds himself into the narrow pew, but at least it's not an outright groan.  
  
"You managed to get away, then."  
  
"Don't worry. The treadmill awaits my return." But he smiles back. He could actually do with a few dull, quiet days in the new year, for a change.  
  
"How's it going?" Anna asks. "Are you getting on with everyone?"  
  
"There isn't much of an everyone to get on with." Not a lie, either, technically.   
  
"Don't you enjoy it more than being at war with all the world?"  
  
This is dangerously thin ice, and he's not ready to test it, at least not here and now with so many people listening. "I suppose," he backs off quickly.  
  
The church is cold like only churches can be in winter, but Anna folds back her coat as if it's sweltering. Thomas glances at her bump. "What's the matter?"  
  
Now Anna starts fanning herself with the order-of-service sheet. "It's just a bit hot in here." She looks around as if to ask someone to open the windows.

Thomas takes the opportunity to lean across and say hello to John Bates, who has either ignored him so far or just been polite and left the field to his wife. Thomas assumes that the day will never come when he'll learn to read that sphinx-like face.  
  
"Mr Bates? I just wanted to tell you that I took your advice."  
  
"Oh?" Strong dark eyebrows go up, but without real surprise. "I hope it was of use. I'm still puzzled why you needed it in the first place."  
  
The answer to that is easy. It's because Thomas simply didn't know that making friends could be such hard work. Three months, a savage beating and a string of midnight confidences later, he still has found only one, and one he can't even acknowledge openly back at Stiles Court. But of course Bates doesn't need to know that. It'll just confirm him in the opinion that Thomas Barrow can't look after himself when there's noboby around to help. And Thomas can't have that, because it would be embarrassingly true.

* * *

At nearly half past two in the morning, the light is low in the servants' hall, just the candles on the mantelpiece and the fire in the grate now, which Andy gets up to feed from time to time. Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson have long gone home to their cottage, with a lot to mull over and digest, if not to sleep. Mr Mason has walked back to Yew Tree Farm. Even Mrs Patmore has gone up to her room, "because who else is going to see to breakfast tomorrow when you lot wake from the dead and can't remember what o'clock it is?"  
  
The remaining five of them sit in a close semi-circle around the fire, winding down after a day and night filled with excitement, Molesley at Phyllis' side, Andy at Daisy's and Thomas in the middle. He's still nursing his first glass of wine, because he knows his addled brain won't tolerate more, but he's warm inside even so, and would still be even if they'd let the fire die down. He's back. He's home. He belongs. And he feels irresistibly sleepy.  
  
"I should go up," Phyllis says for the third or fourth time, but she doesn't move this time, either. The firelight softens the sharp angles of her lean face. "Lady Grantham and Lady Mary want their breakfast in the dining room with the others for some reason, so that means an early start. I'm not being very sensible right now." She turns her eyes away from the fire and gives Molesley and Thomas a smile to share between them. "It's nice though, sitting here with you."  
  
"When are you leaving?" Molesley asks Thomas, stifling a yawn.  
  
"Never, sorry," Thomas replies, making them all laugh.  
  
"Oh no." Molesley cringes. "I just meant tomorrow. Today. Later today."  
  
"Mrs Hughes had the bed in your old room made up, Thomas," Andy cuts in. "In case you want a nap before you go."  
  
"Thanks, but it's hardly worth it. I'm going back on the milk train. Might as well stay up now till it's time."  
  
"Oh, don't!" Daisy protests. "Have a lie-down and stay for our breakfast. You look so tired. Call them and say you'll be late 'cause you're ill, or something."  
  
"Say you're drunk," Andy suggests. "What can they do, give you a bad reference?"  
  
More laughter, and isn't it glorious to be suddenly joking about such things.  
  
Daisy goes to the kitchen and comes back with a tin of mince pies to hand around. It makes Thomas smile how she keeps running her hand through her short hair, still getting used to the feeling. The new style suits her.  
  
"Have you got any of our Christmas stuff left?" Daisy asks him, holding out the tin.  
  
"Let me guess, no," Molesley chuckles.  
  
"You'll be surprised," Thomas corrects him, fishing for a pie. "I've still got more than half. I thought I'd have to make it last forever. Couldn't know that my lifetime supply was just around the corner, could I?"  
  
Daisy grins and sits back down. "Will that be in your contract?"  
  
"Look how the times are changing," Phyllis muses. "Mr Carson retires, and the new butler's first innovation is to get paid in pastry."  
  
"The first innovation of many, I hope," Molesley says, raising his glass to Thomas.  
  
"Oh, do we get to make a wish list?" Daisy asks excitedly. "If yes, petition for a wireless in the servants' hall."  
  
"Seconded," Phyllis agrees.  
  
"And can we please stop doing the – " Andy mimes getting up from his chair. " - all the time? Be honest, you always hated that yourself."  
  
"You'll definitely have to do it on my first day back, or else I won't believe it's real," Thomas concedes. "After that – negotiable."  
  
"Birthdays and Christmas?" Phyllis suggests, and they all laugh again.  
  
Thomas finishes his mince pie, then leans across, unthinking, to retrieve his glass from where he's put it on the table behind him. The muscles in his abdomen scream in protest at the sudden twist. He doesn't manage to hide the hitch in his breath.  
  
"Anything wrong?" Phyllis asks instantly, dark eyes as sharp as ever.  
  
"No. Early onset of rheumatism, probably," Thomas half-lies, half-jokes, but he can't fool her. He can't fool any of them, it seems.  
  
"You haven't got into any kind of trouble lately, have you?" Molesley asks, his brows drawn together.  
  
"You know me, Mr Molesley. Trouble follows me wherever I go." And doesn't he wish that were a lie, too.   
  
Thomas isn't planning to tell any of them what happened there, ever, and how likely is it that Elsie will run into Phyllis again anywhere that lends itself to confidences? But he's too tired to come up with a fancy cover story right now, so maybe this is his cue to get himself upstairs and to bed after all. The milk train, by the way, can go whistle, literally.  
  
When Thomas undresses to his underwear – he's brought nothing for overnight, and will have to borrow Andy's shaving kit in a couple of hours, too - and gets under the covers in the cold but familiar attic room, the little fly in the ointment that he's managed to ignore all day makes a reappearance. Maybe it's because the room takes him back to last summer, to the many hours he spent in here staring at the ceiling, too weak from the blood loss to even move while they nursed him back to the life he didn't even want. He's been a disappointment to so many people in his life. And in spite of all the friendly words today, and of the welcome that awaits him here in a few short weeks, someone will be disappointed this time, too.  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Thomas**

The downstairs breakfast is about to break up and Phyllis has already said goodbye and hurried upstairs to dress the ladies when a little procession enters the servants' hall, straight out of a nativity play. John Bates has his arm around his pale but smiling wife, and she's carrying the tight woollen bundle that contains their whole pride and joy. Daisy and Mrs Patmore squeal with delight and instantly abandon clearing the table in favour of admiring the newborn child. Mrs Hughes and Thomas follow suit, but at a more staid pace and minus the squealing.  
  
"We're off home now," Bates announces. "With our son." It seems the man is not planning to ever stop grinning again.  
  
"Oh, congratulations, you two," Mrs Hughes says and embraces Anna tenderly. "Look at the wee bairn, Mr Barrow. Is there anything more lovable?"  
  
Thomas leans across for a look at the tiny red face. It instantly turns away from him to nuzzle deeper into the folds of the blanket.  
  
"I see he takes after his father," Thomas remarks, but without malice, and everyone is happy to mistake the comment for a compliment anyway.  
  
"How are you going to do this, then?" Thomas asks Bates while the women still coo over the little wonder, by way of a peace offering, and also because the grin is getting a bit disturbing now. "Anna always said she didn't want to quit working, but she must take a break now?"  
  
"Not for very long, hopefully" Bates replies. "Her Ladyship has very kindly offered to keep our boy here in the nursery during Anna's work hours, which would be ideal for everyone. But we don't really see how it's going to work, with the nursery already short-staffed as it is."  
  
"What d'you mean, short-staffed?"  
  
"Nanny Shaw is going on to Brancaster with Miss Marigold. She was always her favourite. And they had another girl lined up to take over, but she's already given notice again, too. Something about a factory creche in her hometown offering better hours, if not the same prestige. So we don't really see how Nanny Pearson will manage to look after Master George and Miss Sybbie and a newborn all on her own. What is it?"  
  
Thomas realises that he's staring.  
  
"Well, I suppose all it takes is a phone call to Norland and they're all set," Mrs Patmore shrugs.  
  
"I don't think so," Mrs Hughes disagrees. "The last Norlander they tried lasted barely a month before Mr Barrow sent her packing."  
  
They all chuckle. Oh dear, yes. Thomas can't even recall the woman's name.  
  
"I agree. The others were all local, and some just trained on the job," Anna says. "I think they'd actually prefer someone like that, as long as she has a big heart and is willing to learn."  
  
Carson walks in at this point to see what their little gathering is all about, and before he can get all dewy-eyed over Baby Bates as well, Thomas steps in.  
  
"Mr Carson? Do you think I might talk to Her Ladyship for a moment? There's just a small matter that I'd like to settle before I leave."  
  
Thomas' heart is beating a hard and fast tattoo against his bruised ribs when he follows Carson upstairs. It'll be a long, very long shot, but the chance is too good to miss.  
  
Lady Grantham comes out of the dining room into the hall to meet him, and Lord Grantham follows her out. Carson closes the door behind them on a great deal more merriment and laughter than would be usual on a New Year's morning.  
  
"Well, Barrow?" Lady Grantham asks, radiating a happiness that can't possibly have anything to do with him. "You're not having second thoughts, I hope?"  
  
"No, Your Ladyship, not at all." Thomas wishes he didn't have such a big audience to witness his humiliation if he's completely misjudged the odds, but there's no turning back now. "Just a detail. My Lady, when I come back to stay, in a few weeks... I'd like to bring someone along."  
  
"Oh."

Lord and Lady Grantham exchange a puzzled look. Lord Grantham clears his throat. "Is there something we've misunderstood all these years, Barrow?" he asks, and Thomas is torn between wanting to throttle the man for his goddamn delicacy and wanting to kick himself for wording his request so poorly.  
  
"No, my Lord, you haven't," he hastens to explain. "It's not a private matter. It's just – I've heard that you have a vacancy in the nursery, and I happen to know of a suitable candidate who is eager to train as a nanny."

There's a momentary silence, but then Lady Grantham laughs aloud and says how with both him and Baxter vouching for the girl, she doesn’t see what could go wrong. They'd love to meet her. Lady Mary and Mr Talbot will be delighted.

Thomas decides to unpack all the astounding revelations contained in that reaction at leisure on the train back. For now, he just needs to focus on getting out of here with as much dignity as he can. Because the new butler of Downton can't be seen shedding tears of relief in the great hall for all the world to see, can he?

And above all, he can't make a habit of letting John Bates, of all people, solve his problems. Even poetic justice should have its limits.

**Elsie**

Spring comes early this year, or at least that's how it feels. By March, it's as if a hand with a fine brush has already painted little bright green buds on the boughs of all the trees and bushes in the park of Downton Abbey.  
  
Soon, it'll be warm enough for picnics in the park and excursions along the lake, for visits to Mr Carson's garden, for paper boat races on the creek and everything else that Master George and Miss Sybbie have told Elsie that they love doing in spring. Johnny Bates will outgrow his clothes again, so Elsie will knit some more when she sits by the fire in the nursery in the evenings, watching over their sleep. And Miss Marigold, whom Elsie knows only from photographs, will come and visit for Easter with her parents, and another little piece of the puzzle that is Elsie's new life will fall into place.  
  
The nursery is a world apart from the rest of the house in some ways, but in others, it's not. Their paths cross often. And as Elsie finds her feet, learns her way around the place and gets to know the other people who live and work here, these encounters become less of a lifeline for her than just a comfortable habit; a quick mutual reassurance that things are just fine the way they are.  
  
She still worries about him a little, she probably always will now. She can see how much it matters to him to make a success of his daunting new position, and she hopes he will learn to slow down before it takes too much of a toll. But she also sees proof every day that he's not the only one who wants this to work, and she's not the only one who feels responsible for helping him to make it happen. That task rests on many shoulders now, and they are all, thank heaven, much broader and stronger than hers.  
  
So whenever they meet these days - in the downstairs passage when Elsie takes Johnny to Mrs Bates for his daytime nursing, or when she comes to pick up the older children from some exciting project in Mrs Patmore's kitchen, or out in the park while she's pushing the pram - they will simply smile at each other, and he will say "Good morning, Nanny Miller" in that impeccably polite voice of his, and she will reply "Good morning, Mr Barrow", and by then at the latest, Master George and Miss Sybbie will have done their best to bowl him over with a boisterous hug anyway. And then they will all laugh together, and that's enough.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I bow out and say a huge, heartfelt thank you to each and everyone of you who has subscribed, read, kudoed and commented over the course of the past weeks, or may yet do so. Sharing this story with you guys has been a wonderful journey, all the more because I never expected such a response to this little fantasy of mine. You are a brilliant bunch of people. 
> 
> May you all have the best of new years!
> 
> Say hello on Tumblr @jolie-goes-downton! 
> 
> Looking for transcripts of the Season 4, 5 and 6 episodes of Downton Abbey for your own writing projects? Find them [here!](https://jolie-black.livejournal.com/11071.html)


End file.
